


say my name

by centaur, witchofspaz



Series: bad decisions [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Guilt, Kissing, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Teacher-Student Relationship, Unrelated Striders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-03-22 11:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13763211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centaur/pseuds/centaur, https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchofspaz/pseuds/witchofspaz
Summary: How the hell do you handle the first month of school when you had drunken phone sex with one of your students over the summer?Turns out, not very well.





	1. i am an island

**Author's Note:**

> hello my friends it is i... kelsey witchofspaz. we hope u enjoy the second part of our beloved trash can au  
> with some exceptions, i wrote dave and laura (centaur) wrote dirk  
> we did try to write it so it stands alone but for the optimum experience, i recommend reading the first fic in the series (risky business) first!
> 
> ps sorry there won't be any sex in this particular fic, believe me dirk is a lot more upset about it than y'all

If the universe was kind, alcohol would have rendered Dave’s memories of That Night blurry and indistinct. Unfortunately, in his experience, the universe is more mean and petty than kind, and that's borne out when he wakes the next morning with a killer hangover, a crumpled, stiffened shirt, and a set of devastatingly clear memories.

“You deserve this,” he tells his disheveled, red eyed reflection. 

He’s always liked having summers off. Now it feels both interminable and too short—every day too much free time to think about his appalling lack of self-control, every day one day closer to the day he’ll have to see Dirk again, and every day unable to decide whether that’s a good thing or not. He alternates between sick certainty that Dirk knew who he was the whole time, and desperately convincing himself that Dirk somehow had no idea. The latter state rarely lasts as long as he’d like, and he can’t quite get Dirk’s words out of his head—they come to him at unexpected moments, like when he’s making his bed and finds himself staring at a phantom stain. _No one else has to know, Dave._

He starts going out again, not that frequenting bars is unusual for him during the summer, but he pursues it with a certain gusto that he’s not sure is entirely sincere. Older men, specifically not blond, clearly experienced. It generally has the opposite effect he’s hoping for. No matter who’s holding him, he sees graceful, dark hands on his body and hears that overconfident voice, sly and caressing, every time they say his name. He starts giving fake names to the guys he picks up, then stops picking up guys all together. He tries women for a few weeks, and it’s… easier. But even that doesn’t quite polish away the tarnish of shame that coats every orgasm. 

After a certain point, he just can’t bring himself to keep doing it. The summer is nearly over and he feels the opposite of rested—high-strung and anxious. He hasn’t managed to forget a single detail of that fucking phone call.

He walks into school on the first day of classes like a man walking into his own execution. The first day always has him a little nervous, but this particular first day feels like absolute torture. His class rosters sit on his desk and every time he glances at them and sees Dirk’s name his heart jumps into his throat. 

A thousand scenarios play out in his mind—Dirk walking in and saying something in his rough voice that immediately implicates Dave, some knowing look given as Dirk play-presses his phone to his ear, a text during class: “I know what you did last summer, Dave.” Dirk waiting until the bell rings and then sliding over to Dave and reenacting the things he described, using the desk in place of Dave’s bed. He can hear his pulse in his ears, and the stress makes him nauseous, barely able to eat his lunch.

It’s not anything so dramatic when Dirk actually walks through the door, right on time as he has been since the very first day of his first class in his Spring semester. He still remembers Dirk at an impossibly young fifteen, quiet and gangly—obviously on the leading edge of a growth spurt both physically and mentally. Thinking of Dirk at that age actually helps cut the tense anticipation he’s feeling, reminds him of a time when he legitimately wasn’t attracted to Dirk at all. 

Then Dirk walks in, now an easy 6 feet tall, possibly even more stacked than the last time he saw him, hair freshly bleached and immaculately styled. He moves like he owns the place, with all of his Senior class confidence, a predatory grace in his step, wearing his uniform in a way that seems less prep school requirement and more hot model. As usual, he folds his shades when he comes into the classroom and his startlingly light eyes blink to adjust, then lock onto Dave and study him intensely, making Dave forget how to breathe.

“Hey, Mr. Strider,” he says finally, a genuine hint of happiness breaking through his stoic, serious expression. “Good to see you again.” Slinging his backpack around, he finds his usual seat at the table closest to Dave’s desk, and if anything is amiss, Dave can’t fucking find it. Not for the entire class period, during which Dirk behaves in a manner that is entirely normal for him: occasionally making his usual sly, slightly flirty comments, sneaking glances when he thinks Dave isn’t paying attention, ”accidentally” using his first name instead of ‘Mr. Strider’—which makes his pulse pick up every goddamn time.

The boy has always been always aggressive, and this is fully in-character behavior. He’s not pushing harder because he knows something new that he can use as leverage. He’s not making allusions to anything or threatening blackmail. He’s just… being Dirk.

“Do anything fun this summer?” Dirk asks quietly in the middle of class, looking up from the beginnings of a sketch for a 3D project that Dave agreed to let him do last year. 

Dave stares hard at Photoshop on his laptop screen, not sure whether he should meet Dirk’s eyes, not confident in his ability to lie about what his summer was like.

“Not really,” he finally answers. It’s basically true.

Dirk gives him a slanted glance as soon as he realizes he’s not going to get anything more from Dave, then asks in a faux-offended voice, “Aren’t you going to ask about mine?” 

“All that summer homework for your AP classes must have kept you pretty busy,” Dave says neutrally.

“Not really,” Dirk echoes, mockingly mimicking Dave’s tone. Then: “I had a boyfriend for a hot second though. That kept me pretty busy.” His words are thick with insinuations, none of which have the decency to go over Dave’s head.

Dave swallows the jealousy that rises ugly in the back of his throat, jealousy that he has no right to. That he should not be feeling because Dirk is his student and a minor and it’s obscenely wrong. “That sounds nice,” he says, an absurdly bland—and out of character—answer. He may never have encouraged Dirk’s advances, but he’s always taken an active interest in his well-being and in his life. That’s how a teacher is _supposed_ to be, and Dirk deserves it. But he can’t bring himself to ask for details about this supposed boyfriend ( _Did they have sex? Did Dirk love him? Why didn't it last?_ a voice whispers in the back of his brain), and besides, Dirk is obviously fishing for a reaction. It would be beyond foolish to give him what he wants.

Dirk tilts his head and regards Dave with quiet curiosity for a long minute, very plainly processing Dave’s response. “Yeah,” he settles on finally as his answer, carefully toneless, then goes back to work.

Guilt tears at Dave’s heart, but he’s also relieved the conversation seems to be over. He watches Dirk work subtly all through class, struggling to get anything done himself. Dirk doesn’t look up at him again, doesn’t try to engage him. Dave’s a little surprised that he was put off so easily, but it’s just as well. Before class is over, he alerts the students that he has a meeting and won’t be available during fifth period as he usually is. Though true, it is also convenient—Dave is now certain he could not handle being alone with Dirk, who habitually spends their shared free period with him. 

He’s afraid to look at Dirk, doesn’t want to see his reaction, but he can’t help it. He’s met with a raised eyebrow and a polite, detached expression, but he can feel the judgment, the consternation, the chagrin—it’s not imagined—and when he glances away again, he catches Dirk’s mouth curling down into a deep frown. Dirk turns the tables and watches him now, his eyes a weight on Dave’s back as they pack their belongings. He feels like Atlas by the time he turns around to leave and finds Dirk standing in the doorway, a hard set to his strong jaw like he’s holding back questions. 

“Have a nice meeting, Dave,” he says, sliding on his shades like a barrier before slipping out the door and heading towards the men’s bathroom down the hall.

Over the next few weeks, Dave finds excuse after excuse not to stay behind after class. Dirk catches him in the halls a few times, but after stammering out a few awkward sentences in response to Dirk’s barbed questions, he always manages to escape.

Then Dave starts to hear rumors.

Oh, there have been rumors about Dirk for a while now—rumors, and a lot of obscene bathroom graffiti. True rumors, as Dave knows uncomfortably well, but blowing fellow students in campus bathrooms is one thing. Now Dave is hearing whispers about Dirk hooking up with half of the football team in the locker rooms after school and getting passed around at jock parties. He even hears from a friend about the “delicious” young man who came into his favorite bar one night and didn’t leave alone. When he presses for a description, it fits Dirk to a tee. Jesus, can’t those thirsty assholes tell they’re picking up a teenage boy? Probably not, he admits to himself. Dirk is tall, broad shouldered, carries himself with a confidence beyond his years—and he’s good-looking enough to overcome any man’s good sense. He certainly overcame Dave’s, he thinks miserably. Still, it makes him burn. Soon, it’s all he can think about. Dirk is a smart kid. He should know better than to engage in that kind of dangerous behavior. More than that, he _deserves_ better. He should know that too. Dave stews on it for days, feelings building inside him like steam in a boiler, until his need to confront Dirk outweighs his fear of what might happen if they’re alone together.

When Dirk walks into class, Dave nearly has a nervous breakdown, the conflicting feelings swinging his thoughts back and forth between wanting to escape and wanting to protect like a sickening carnival ride. Then Dirk takes off his shades and gives him a little puzzled head-tilt—fair: Dave is lurking near the door like a weirdo—and he remembers why he has to do this. Maybe it’s Dirk’s face, which still has a little boyishness, or his eyes which are bright and cunning instead of jaded, but God, Dave just wants to keep it that way. “Dirk.” He swallows. “Are… you free after class today?”

Dirk stares at him. “You know I am.” he puts a strong emphasis on the ‘I’, and it stings. It’s deserved, but it stings. “Why?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Immediately suspicious, Dirk squints at him, then brushes past to go settle at his table with Dave trailing behind awkwardly. “No meetings or personal projects or huge dumps to take or anything?”

“I definitely said ‘indigestion’ that one time. You came to that conclusion on your own.”

“How shitty of me to assume.”

Dave groans. “God, Dirk, gross.” Dave is not going to beg him to stay, but, fuck, he has to stay. “Are you staying, or not?”

There is a cautious pause, Dirk looks at Dave searchingly before replying, “Yeah, I’ll stay.” 

All through class, Dirk is on his phone, fingers flying like he’s texting at the speed of light. Several times, Dave tries to get him to put his phone away and Dirk gives him this fuck-off kind of _look_ before finally saying in a condescending tone, as if he had been trying to protect Dave from this answer, “I’m cancelling appointments, since you need to see me.” 

Dave tries not to rise to the bait, but he’s sure his reaction shows on his face before he shoves it down. “No texting in class, Mr. Lalonde. Period. You can tend to your business concerns later. Or else I’ll be the one attending to them after I confiscate your phone.” A deep-buried, ugly part of Dave wants to do this anyway, to see if their texts are saved in Dirk’s messages, to see if he put sophomore Dave Sawyer into his contacts. He never would. That kind of violation is unthinkable. ( _But other kinds of violations are okay, apparently,_ a nasty voice whispers in his mind.) 

The phone immediately disappears and though Dave has a strong feeling that texting is still occurring, he can’t seem to catch Dirk doing it.

When the bell rings, signalling the end of class and the start of both of their free periods, Dirk keeps working on his project. Students file out as Dave’s palms start sweating and when he glances at Dirk, he’s struck with a furrowed brow, tight lipped stare.

“What’s the problem, Dave?” Dirk asks in a deceptively soft voice, anger tucked in the clipped way he enunciates each word.

“”Mr.—‘“ Dave tries, a little helplessly.

“Dave,” Dirk shuts him down firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s been almost a month since school started and you’ve barely fuckin’ managed to hold one normal conversation with me. This was our free period.” The ‘was’ hurts like hell, but way he says ‘our’, that possessive, somehow hurts more. He sounds angry and resentful and pained. Theirs. They had it together. When you have hour long talks every weekday for three years, you get to know someone really well. When you’re a kid like Dirk, intentionally self-isolating and emotionally closed off from your peers, and you finally can relax socially for a fucking hour, you _would_ get upset if that hour was taken away from you.

Much harsher tone this time, each word sharpened. “So what’s the problem?”

Though he was so sure that he _had_ to talk to Dirk and find out what the hell is going on, and he was sure that his protective concern for Dirk would overcome his fear when it came down to it, Dave finds himself frozen.

Impatient and frustrated, Dirk sucks air through his clenched teeth. “Did Egbert say something?” he tries, dislike clear in his voice despite his flat tone. 

“No,” Dave says slowly, baffled by this turn in the conversation. “Why would he?” Dave doesn’t fully understand why Dirk hates Principal Egbert so much but suspects that it has something to do with his intense issues with male authority figures and a lot more to do with how much Dave likes him. (Which is not as much as Dirk probably thinks he does; he was over his crush years before Dirk even enrolled in Derse Academy.) Ironically, Mr. Egbert was always supportive of Dave’s “mentoring” role in Dirk’s life, even telling him once how he was proud of Dave because Dirk was getting himself into a lot less trouble with Dave in his life. Of course, he’d fire Dave in an instant, despite their almost family-like relationship, if he knew what happened that night at the end of last school year.

Dirk pointedly stares at him, his answer contained in his expression.

“Use your words, Dirk.” Like Dave doesn’t know what Dirk is thinking—the rumors can’t only be reaching Dave’s ears. He just wants to hear it from Dirk.

Dirk’s eyes narrow and his body stiffens, that dislike of authority starting to surface. He almost never treats Dave that way—Dave understands Dirk, knows how to handle him, so his alleged “behavioral issues” rarely come up. In moments like this, though, he can see why some other teachers think Dirk is trouble. “I don’t fucking see why I should, when you never answered my question.” 

“He didn’t say anything to me, I said. As far as I know, he doesn’t know anything.”

The look shifts to flat, flat, flat, but something furious lurks under it. “Dave.”

Oh. Dave rubs his hand wearily over his face, regretting not slipping his shades on after class ended. Doing it now would just look like he was hiding from Dirk, and make everything worse. “I don’t have a problem with you, Dirk. That’s not why I wanted to talk.”

“That’s not why you _haven’t_ wanted to talk, you mean? You realize it’s been literal weeks, right?” Each question a barb, a stab to Dave’s conscience. He’s been so busy indulging his own anxieties that he didn’t see how badly he was hurting Dirk.

“Yes. I realize. I’m sorry.” The words seem pathetically inadequate the second they leave his mouth. “It’s not… It wasn’t the right thing to do.” Dirk’s mouth opens to form a reply and he pushes stubbornly on, his teacher instincts taking over. “I _am_ sorry. Really. But I’m not a good enough reason for you to be acting so stupid, trying to get yourself hurt, or worse. There _is_ no good reason for that, Dirk.” 

The way Dirk’s eyebrows furrow makes him look like he’s running calculations. Maybe he is. When Dave first spoke, Dirk’s mouth repeated the shapes of the words ‘trying to get yourself hurt’. He’s so inward and restrained, he’s barely letting any of his anger show on his face, but it’s obviously there. “I’m going to ignore the implication that I don’t know how to take care of myself.” Then, bluntly, “You think I’m having sex to punish you.”

“I think you’re having sex because you want to, and punishing me is a convenient side benefit,” Dave says dryly. “Am I wrong?”

“Is it working?” Dirk slings back, lip curling unpleasantly. It feels like a gut punch.

“Yes,” he says simply, like it’s obvious. “I care about you, Dirk. I want you to be safe.” 

The confirmation that he was right somehow makes Dirk even angrier. “Jesus, Dave, I’d have hoped by now you’d know that I’m not a fucking idiot.” He gets a shrewd look in his eye. “You’re only just now playing daddy. The rest of the semester you’ve been making up excuses not to talk to me. So did I do something particularly worrisome to overcome your _inexplicable_ aversion to being alone with me?”

Dave swallows uncomfortably, not wanting to accept that premise, but… Dirk is right. “I heard something, uh… disturbing. From a friend.”

“‘Disturbing,’” Dirk echoes, expression going carefully blank and blameless. He starts to put his things away, tidying the table of supplies.

“He was at my favorite bar. I haven’t been there in a while,” Dave adds unnecessarily. “He told me about a guy he saw. Tall, black, really good-looking, weird sunglasses.” He pauses. His friend also said, _Just your type, Dave._ “Young.” There’s no doubt in his mind that it was Dirk, but he wants to hear Dirk admit it. 

Instead, Dirk snorts and immediately latches on to the part he finds most interesting. “Really good-looking.” 

“Not my words,” Dave says too quickly.

“Yet you obviously think this guy your friend was describing was me.” Dirk is suddenly looking Dave dead in the eyes, a cold clarity in his gaze. His backpack is zippered and he pushes his chair back, standing, but instead of going towards the door, he takes two steps towards Dave. “How would I get into a bar, Dave?” There is something extremely dangerous in his voice, something confident and dark threaded through the questions. “And why would I go to the one that’s apparently your favorite? What if I ran into you?”

“How should I know?” Nervousness makes Dave snappish. “I can’t read your mind, Dirk.” The understatement of the fucking century. Abruptly he registers what Dirk has been doing for the past several minutes. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Clearly not,” Dirk says, moving closer to Dave’s desk. “Are you going to keep making excuses to not be alone with me?”

Dave’s heart is thumping against his ribcage so hard, he’s half-convinced Dirk can hear it. “No. I already said it was wrong.” He hates how weak he sounds.

“That’s good. I’d hate to keep making you worried with disturbing rumors.” He mockingly puts air quotes around disturbing. 

“That’s not up to me,” Dave says acerbically, finding his spine again.

“It isn’t?” Dirk nearly spits, leaning closer, his palms sliding onto the flat surface of Dave’s desk. “Why would I go to your favorite bar, Dave?” The question is more of a demand at this point. “Why would I be so fucking obvious, with my name in every bathroom, my name on the lips of every fucking student with a dick? You can’t figure it out, can you?”

“Because you wanted me to notice,” Dave says impatiently. “I’m not an idiot, Dirk.”

“Yes, you are.” Dirk pulls back, frustrated. “You know the real answer—” and a second’s pause, suddenly cautious. “We’ve talked about it.” Then, he changes tactics, mind working like a whip. “Why didn’t you want to be alone with me, Dave?”

Dave nearly flinches. He knows that this is a chess game. Dirk almost definitely already knows the answer to that question; he just wants to hear Dave admit it out loud. At this point, he’s struggling to find a reason not to admit it.

“Dave,” Dirk says, and his voice caresses Dave’s name, the same way it always has, but undiluted, not banked back. The way it sounded over the phone, last summer.

“Because you scare the shit out of me.” His voice cracks, but saying the words releases something tight and awful in his chest.

It seems like Dirk can’t decide between stung and victorious, the way the two emotions flicker on his face. There is a flash of something almost like guilt in his eyes, some inner conflict of whether he should push or retreat. It makes Dave’s chest ache. “Why?” he asks superfluously, almost like he’s buying time.

“You know why.” Dave feels frozen in his chair, staring helplessly at Dirk’s face because he can’t bring himself to look anywhere else. “You just want me to say it.”

“Dave,” Dirk murmurs again, and Dave is transfixed, registering distantly Dirk’s long fingers splayed on his desk, his tie falling forward as he leans close, too close. “Why are you afraid?”

Dirk is so close his presence burns. 

“It’s okay, Dave. No one else has to know,” he says, soft as anything. Those words, in that voice—they’re tattooed on the inside of Dave’s skull, so clearly that for a split second he thinks he’s just hearing them in his head again. His whole body jerks in electrified reaction and his lips part. Dirk takes immediate advantage, tipping Dave’s chin up with one hand and swooping in.

His lips are soft. He’s a good kisser too, kind of unfairly so for his age. Dave melts like he’s a fucking teenager himself, making a soft, pathetic sound.

Then reality rushes back in, roaring in Dave’s ears, and he jerks back abruptly, slapping a hand over his mouth in horror. 

“I can't— I shouldn't— You’re seventeen, Dirk. _Seventeen_. I’m almost thirty. Oh my god.” He drops his face into his hands. “I’m going to hell,” he moans.

“I’ll meet you there,” Dirk says like it’s some romantic thing, gently tugging Dave’s hands away from his face. “Look at me, Dave.” He does, tentatively, and Dirk looks easily the happiest he has ever seen him, with a shitty contented smile, made sweet by the earnest emotion in his eyes. “Do you _want_ to kiss me again? Because I don’t give a shit how old you are.” 

“I know you don’t. Jesus, Dirk, that's the problem.” He covers his face again, rubbing his forehead. Then he peers out between his fingers. “Yes, I want to kiss you again.”

Dirk has to duck his head, not quite successfully hiding a grin. “Good,” he says firmly, trying to regain his ground. “You’re not acting like you’re almost thirty, anyway—why are you still hiding your face like it’s your first kiss?”

“I don’t know,” Dave mumbles. “My teaching certification grad program didn’t give me the tools to deal with this particular fuckin’ situation.”

“I’m no professor, but I can tell you that you don’t need ‘tools’ to ‘deal,’” Dirk rolls his eyes, then slides around the edge of the desk to Dave’s side. “You need to uncover your face so I can kiss you.” He taps gently at Dave’s fingers, like he’s knocking on a door. 

Without the desk between them, Dirk is close enough to feel his body heat, and Dave is nearly breathless with the force of his own wanting. This is exactly what he was afraid of, why he made any excuse he could think of to avoid being alone with Dirk, being close to him. He gave in once, in a moment of drunken weakness, and it opened a door that he doesn’t know how to shut again. Now, with Dirk so near, he can’t do anything else but surrender again. Making a noise like a whimper, he drops his hands, and Dirk smiles again, and his lips touch Dave’s.

Dirk is gentle and unhurried but it’s very clear from the way his fingers brush across Dave’s jaw that it could change at any moment. Dave fluctuates between terror and desire, but isn’t given the opportunity to decide between them before the bell chimes signaling the end of the period. Dirk somehow, miraculously manages to pull away, but his hand lingers possessively for a moment on Dave’s face. 

Slowly, he puts two steps of distance between them, returns to the appropriate side of Dave’s desk, and starts walking backwards towards the door. His eyes never leave Dave’s, but his mouth curls up more and more the further he gets. 

“We’ll talk later,” Dirk says, and it feels like both a terrible threat and a glorious promise as he drops his shades onto his nose and slides out the door just seconds before Dave’s next class starts pouring in.


	2. you are the ocean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we originally planned this fic to have two chapters but then dave was stubborn so it's gonna wrap up with three whoops... thanks for sticking with us y'all, this au is really special to us and we're really happy and excited that people seem to like it so much :V!!

Dave passes his entire next class in a kind of semi-functional daze, apparently obvious enough to his 10th graders that one of them asks him if he needs to see the school nurse. He brushes it off, stammering something about not having gotten enough sleep the night before, which is at least technically true.

When the bell rings, he snatches his phone out of his pocket immediately. Dirk’s number is still in his contacts. When he taps it, the last few texts they sent each other appear on the screen, from when Dirk was pretending to not know who was booty calling him and Dave was pretending the same thing, but harder. The texts themselves are pretty innocent, but the memories of what followed them are vivid, flushing his cheeks and momentarily freezing him in his tracks.

ok but we actually do have to talk  
like for real  
actual talking

He locks his phone and pockets it, but after a few moments of anxiously watching students file into the art room, he snatches it out again to add:

not at school

The answer comes too quickly.

Are you inviting me over? Moving fast, Dave.  
no  
well yes  
not like that ok  
can you just be normal for 3 seconds of your obnoxious ass life

He sets his phone down again. Picks it up again. He’s feeling way too much like a teenager bumbling through his first relationship. Maybe it’s contagious? Except Dirk doesn’t seem to be bumbling at all.

im not kidding dirk its not going to be like that  
i just want to talk  
this is serious  
I’m serious.  
I’ve been serious for like, three years now.  
Obviously I know that isn’t what you meant. I just think you need to come to terms with it.  
I’m not about to do anything that might fuck this up, so you don’t need to worry so goddamn much, dude.  
I’m really sorry for stressing you out so bad with that joke about us fucking at your place.  
I should have realized it would be in poor taste since we definitely haven’t ever discussed that scenario before via phone or anything.  
Anyway.  
I’m happy to talk whenever.

Like Dirk wasn't actively trying to fluster him with that crack. Like he’s not actively trying to fluster him _now_. Dave feels foolish anyway.

jesus dirk  
4pm my apartment  
now stop texting in class  
for fucks sake how many times do i have to tell you  
I could tell you to do the same, Mr. Strider.  


Suddenly his proper title, coming from Dirk, seems filthier and more intimate than his given name.

my class is busy watching a movie  
im a fucking professional dirk  
how dare you  
I’ll believe it when I experience it.  
im turning my phone off now

And he totally does, showing impressive restraint. He even manages to focus on teaching for the remainder of the day, mostly. 

==>

At 3:55, biting his nails and waiting for Dirk’s knock on the door, Dave is keenly aware that he has no idea what he’s actually going to say. When he tries to plan out the conversation in his head, it inevitably devolves into uncomfortably vivid mental images. His mind is a swirling mess of shame and confusion, with a streak of giddiness that only feeds back into his guilt. He’s not allowed to feel that excitement, not about Dirk.

Dirk is precisely on time, of course. He rings the doorbell and has the decency to not bust in like he owns the place when Dave steps aside to let him in. They square off in the foyer; Dave finds that it is difficult to look at Dirk’s face, and solves this problem by not doing it. But looking at the rest of him is also difficult, because Dirk is no longer wearing his prep school uniform of a sweater and tie and slacks, but a tight white t-shirt and very flattering jeans. Dave fights off a hysterical impulse to touch his abs, which are almost visible through the thin cotton.

“I thought you wanted to talk, Dave,” Dirk says, amused.

Dave flushes. For two years, he kept his cool around this kid pretty damn well despite a non-stop onslaught of flirtation, and all of a sudden he’s like a middle schooler with his first crush. “I did. I do. Shut up.” He gestures vaguely down the hallway. Dirk has been to his apartment before, but never made it past the front door. “Living room’s that way. No exploring.” Establishing boundaries has always been important with Dirk, and now it’s more vital than ever. “You want a coke or something?”

“I don’t really drink soda unless it’s orange.” Dirk replies, flashing Dave a knowing look. “But you don’t need me to give you an excuse to get something to calm your nerves, if you want. I’ll be on the couch.”

Dave comes dangerously close to spluttering. “I was just being a good host, you dick.” He leads Dirk to the living room and waits for him to sit first before sitting on the opposite end of the couch, as far from Dirk as he can get. Safe distance.

Or at least it is until Dirk leans toward him, knuckles folded under his chin. “Nice place,” he says, but it isn’t clear whether he’s actually looked anywhere but at Dave the entire time he’s been in the apartment. 

“Not really.” He definitely hasn’t looked at it. It’s not a total dump, but even at private schools teachers don’t make much. Dave glances at Dirk’s face, then away, staring at the “art” on the wall above the TV. It’s his, from undergrad. Absurdist, incoherent, obscene. His oil painting professor wasn’t a fan, but great art is rarely appreciated in its own time.

“Well, I like it.” Contrary as always. Dirk’s head turns towards the painting and he regards it quietly, then bites his lower lip. The movement draws Dave’s gaze and his heartbeat speeds up.

“What.”

“What?” Dirk rubs his mouth, like he’s trying to cover his embarrassment at getting caught. “I’m just appreciating your artistic talent. That _is_ yours, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s mine.” Dave pauses. “You like it?” He’s uncomfortably aware of the sincerity of his question.

The response he receives is a low, affirmative hum while Dirk looks at the painting again, this time more like he’s trying not to look at Dave. After a long moment, he says, “I figured you knew that I’m—” he hesitates, thinking over his words. “I’m really into the things you do. Your art, I mean,” he clarifies too quickly, like he does when he’s worried he’s overstepped a boundary. Dirk is aggressive, but he’s careful not to push too hard. The boundaries are a little more nebulous now, but if anything that seems to be making him more cautious.

Dave is a little surprised. This carefulness is not out of character, but it’s a pretty extreme shift from his earlier cockiness. “Yeah, I know,” he says slowly, following Dirk’s lead and not looking directly at him. Dirk’s sudden vulnerability automatically channels all of Dave’s energy into doing whatever will make Dirk most comfortable. “I know you like my art… and also other things I do,” he finishes awkwardly. He’s blushing. God, this is so high school. Perhaps appropriately, since Dirk is fucking _in_ high school.

The problem with Dirk, though, is that for every moment he acts like an inexperienced teenager, or shows a modicum of uncertainty, there’s a much longer moment where he very much doesn’t. His glance slides slowly back to Dave, more sly than anything when it finally settles on his flushed face. “I didn’t actually think I had been hiding it, so that’s good. I’m reassured you aren’t totally oblivious, even when your back is turned.” His eyes flick downwards, to where Dave’s ass is currently seated and completely unviewable.

Dave leans forward and snaps his fingers right in Dirk’s face. “My eyes are up here. And we’re not doing that right now.”

“Doing what?” Dirk asks mildly, looking at Dave through his dark eyelashes less innocently than he probably thinks he does. 

“Flirting,” Dave says baldly, refusing to play along with Dirk’s coy game.

“Right.” Dirk leans back and stretches his arms out over the back of the sofa. Dave instinctively flinches away. “We’re supposed to be talking. The only thing you invited me over for, because I am too young for anything more stimulating than a lecture from you about the dangers of promiscuity and your repeated insistence that you’re going to hell for kissing me.” 

“Snide jackass deflections are not what we’re doing right now either.” 

Dirk shows all of his teeth in his grin. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“No.”

“I don’t think I’m the only one deflecting, Dave.” 

“I’m not deflecting! Also, don’t use my deflection to deflect from your defl—God damn it!” Dave rubs his hands frustratedly over his face, then just kind of leaves them there, because he sort of wants to hide. He is totally the literal adult in this situation. “I told you I don’t have the tools for this,” he mumbles.

Seconds tick by as Dirk placidly regards Dave—long enough for Dave to take his hands off his face to see what’s going on. His expression is neutral, but Dave feels distinctly scrutinized. Finally, Dirk makes a small noise of exasperation, having made some kind of acrobatic fucking mental leap, and says, “Dave, you can’t keep saying you ‘don’t have the tools.’ What tools, dude? You, to some extent, reciprocate my feelings. That’s called a crush. It isn’t a problem that needs fixing. I don’t know why you need to keep invoking some kind of emotional hardware shop to deal with it. The concept isn’t all that complicated. You’re just _making it_ complicated.”

What the fuck. Dave emerges from behind his hands to give Dirk an incredulous look. “Dirk. I’m aware you inhabit a reality that’s several levels removed from where the rest of us are existing, so let me explain something to you. I didn’t invent the concept of high school teachers crushing on their underage students being a big fucking problem. You know, a _complicated_ one.”

“Is it the age difference, or is job security your issue?” Dirk asks clinically.

The ease and speed with which Dirk pivots throws Dave, and he has to take a second to reorient himself. “I mean, both, I guess, but losing my job isn’t exactly my primary concern. That’d be kind of fucked.” Even though Dave was the one who avoided the issue, it feels weird that they’ve never talked about this before, maybe because Dave has gone over it in his head so many times. “Like, if my reason for not banging my students was just ‘cause I don’t wanna get fired, I think that’d make me kind of a shitty person.”

“Agreed—but if you are worried about it, you shouldn’t be.” The eyes that Dirk gives Dave are serious and painfully earnest, and they do something strange to the pit of his stomach. “If I thought for a second that I’d ruin your life, I wouldn’t be pursuing you.” He scoots closer and reaches towards Dave’s face. “Do you think I want to hurt you?”

“No!” Dave protests immediately. 

“That’s good.” Dirk touches Dave’s cheek, almost victoriously. “I don’t.”

Dave lets himself give in briefly, lifting his own hand to rest lightly on Dirk’s wrist. He leaves it there longer than he should, longing squeezing his chest, but then he wraps his fingers around Dirk’s wrist and gently pulls it away from his face.

“This isn’t about whether you’re going to hurt me,” he says firmly.

Dirk sighs like the exasperated teenager he is and leans back, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what the deal is then, Dave. Age is a construct that I don’t give a shit about. I’m beyond consenting here. If the feelings aren’t mutual—” he pauses, like he doesn’t want to give that idea any further merit by continuing.

Dave raises his hands in a “time out” gesture. “That’s barely relevant, Dirk. You’re a teenager. I’m not. End of story.”

“Is it?” Dirk hides his obvious anger under a shitty bored teen facade. “We will still keep seeing each other every damn day. I’m just supposed to forget that we had phone sex—and kissed—because there’s an age gap that only one of us seems to fucking care about?”

Dave’s thought processes snag on the words _phone sex_ and it takes him several seconds to catch up with the rest of the sentence.

“Okay, first, only one of us needs to care to have it not be a thing. That’s how consent works.” He stops, takes a breath, pushes his shades up his nose. Dealing with Dirk sometimes feels like explaining human culture to an alien. “Second, no, I’m obviously not saying I expect you to forget, because that’s stupid. Don’t be disingenuous.”

“I’m not being disingenuous, asshole.” His tone is sharp, control over his emotions strained. “I’m asking what the fuck you expect me to do now. These are feelings I’ve had for three years and they are finally being reciprocated. I’m not going to sit back and let go, Dave. I can’t. You know me better than that.”

The longer this conversation goes on, the less control Dave feels like he has over its direction. Now he’s somehow given Dirk the idea that he isn’t taking Dirk’s feelings seriously, when nothing could be further from the truth. He runs a hand through his hair and makes a frustrated noise.

“Yes, I do. And I don’t expect that.” He flops back in his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his shades up slightly in the process. “I feel like I need a reset on this conversation. I”m not sure how I wanted it to go, but this isn’t it.”

There is a long silence from Dirk as he watches Dave fidget, then, slowly, the angry, defensive tension in his body fades. He unfolds his arms and heaves a sigh big enough to blow his bangs off his face. “Do you want to get me a coke now?” He pushes his own pointy glasses to the top of his head, conciliatory. 

It wins him a smile. “No. But I appreciate the thought.” Dave would rather hold on to his shades for now, but follows Dirk’s example anyway, folding them carefully and setting them on a side table. It’s a gesture of good faith, and maybe if Dirk can see Dave’s eyes he won’t be so quick to misinterpret his words.

It’s not like Dave ever, in any way, expected this to be easy, but Christ. It is so, so fucking hard. It would have been easier on Dirk, he thinks, if he’d gone on thinking Dave was totally uninterested in him. Alcohol is a demon liquid. (Dirk would have figured it out anyway, eventually, an inner voice whispers. He tells it to shut up.)

Eventually, after what feels like hours of inner reflection, while Dirk watches him too patiently with eyes that could bore through reinforced steel, he starts again: “Dirk.” Dirk doesn’t respond verbally, but his posture changes subtly at the sound of his name, like he’s listening with his entire body. “Do you understand why I can’t act on my feelings? Do you understand what it does to me to even have them at all?”

Dirk slowly shakes his head, then asks, “What are you afraid of, Dave? Because I don’t understand, not really. Not the way I think you want me to. I get that you are worried about me, because you think I’m too young for you. I don’t really understand why you are so afraid of it, though, because I know I’m not. I feel like I’m trying to convince you of something that doesn’t need to be argued about. My age is not an indicator of anything, other than the total amount of time I’ve been alive. It doesn’t define me or what I feel. It doesn’t mean shit.” 

“It scares me _that_ you’re not afraid,” Dave says quietly. “You’re so fucking sure that as long as you have everything planned out, you can’t get hurt. Life doesn’t work that way, Dirk. You can’t control it like that.”

There is poorly concealed, almost desperate want in Dirk’s half-lidded, gold colored eyes, and his voice is low. “I’m aware. I just don’t think you’re capable of hurting me in the way you seem to think you are.” 

“And I don’t plan to.” Dave’s voice is tight with emotion. “But the idea that I could is unbearable.”

“Dave—” Dirk starts in that tender, possessive tone, as if trying to soothe him.

“I know,” Dave says, cutting him off. “But this is how it’s different than if you were an adult, Dirk. I’m responsible for you, in a very literal way. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“Dave,” his voice turns sharper. “I’m not a child and as much as you love to pretend you are my dad, you aren’t. I’m old enough to take care of my fucking self, thanks.”

“My wanting to be your _dad_ is not the issue here, Dirk. It’s that I want—” Dave cuts himself off before he can finish that thought, but not before Dirk’s eyes light up in triumph. Abruptly he realizes that Dirk is somehow sitting much closer than he was at the start of the conversation. He must have been moving closer, too slowly and gradually for Dave to notice.

“You want...?” Dirk prompts, sliding back to soft and leading. One of his arms is resting casually along the back of the couch again, close and confining, and Dave (with some effort) doesn’t flinch away. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Dave says bitterly. “I can’t have it.”

“I think you can, actually. I think we both want the same thing and it’s stupid to keep denying yourself for ‘my sake’, or whatever excuse you keep feeding yourself.” Dirk reaches for Dave, not aggressive, but steady. “I want you, Dave. What do you want?”

Dirk is so close, and suddenly it feels hard to breathe. Dirk’s hand grazes the side of his face gently, then comes to rest on the back of his neck. Dave closes his eyes, then opens them, meeting Dirk’s burning gaze. Slowly, as if afraid that by moving too fast, he might break something, he lifts his own hand to mirror Dirk’s. His fingers brush Dirk’s face, feeling the roughness of stubble, feeling out the line of his nose. Dirk is silent, patient, waiting for Dave’s answer, but when a finger traces the seam of his lips, it’s too much, and he uses the hand at Dave’s neck to pull him forward into a kiss.

It’s like a dam bursts in his chest. Dave is immediately hungry, making a soft wanting sound into Dirk’s mouth, and Dirk answers it with his tongue. The arm Dirk has resting on the couch slides in and firmly wraps around around Dave’s body, drawing him closer. Dave is frantic, but not mindless—his guilt is still very much alive in his mind and in his chest, but instead of stopping him, it puts an edge on his need. When Dirk touches him, he moans and melts against him, arms sliding around his neck.

Dirk’s palm cups Dave’s cheek and his fingertips press roughly into his skin like they are trying to take root; Dave can feel his possessiveness like venom in his veins, burning him from the inside. With a hand tangled tightly in Dave’s hair, Dirk ravenously swallows each gasp that Dave makes, even as he tries to coax another and another out with his hands and mouth. Dave inches over until he’s pressed flush against Dirk’s side and the only way to get closer is to climb onto Dirk’s lap, so he does.

Desperate hands grasp at Dave’s hips and pull them roughly against Dirk’s. It’s suddenly impossible to ignore that Dirk is sporting a rather formidable erection. Dave practically hears a record scratch in his brain, and pulls back immediately.

“Wait, wait, hold on. Slow down. We need to slow down.” His face is flushed, his lips swollen. “This isn’t what—” He stops. “I shouldn’t— We can’t—” Every sentence he tries seems like it will end with hurting Dirk.

“Hey,” Dirk’s hands, which he pulled away the instant he heard the word ‘wait’, carefully move towards Dave face and gently hold it between them. His voice is surprisingly level, despite his quick breathing. “Hey, it’s alright. We can stop.” 

Dave wants to lean his face into Dirk’s hands. He doesn’t. “I don’t—” He stops again. “I keep saying the wrong thing, or doing the wrong thing, and making you think I don’t care, or—or think about your feelings the way I should. I don’t want to do that anymore.”

“Okay,” Dirk says calmly, absently rubbing soothing lines along Dave’s cheekbones. “You’re fine though, really. I know you care about me, Dave. I’m not worried about it. I just don’t want you to be so afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Dave says miserably. “I’m afraid of me.”

Dirk snorts and mutters, “Shit, yeah, you’re really dangerous.” Then, he seems to realize that’s asshole behavior and tries to solemn up. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Dave leans forward, resting his forehead on Dirk’s shoulder. Fingers shuffle through his hair. He heaves a sigh, and tries not to notice Dirk’s body heat or the fact that his muscles feel every bit as good as they look.

“Nah, I shouldn’t be like that. It’s just frustrating how good you are at making excuses.” 

Dave makes a frustrated noise into Dirk’s shirt. “They’re not excuses, Dirk. They’re just like, real things. Things that are true.”

The way Dirk exhales makes Dave picture rolling eyes and a shaking head. “I’m real,” he says. “So is how I feel about you.”

“I can feel that,” Dave mumbles, and immediately regrets it as Dirk’s torso vibrates with quiet laughter. Completely shameless.

“I bet you can,” Dirk replies through his wheezy laughing, putting on a joking-not-joking husky tone that makes him sound like an amateur porn star.

“Just pretend I didn’t say that. Jesus.” 

Dirk acknowledges with a hum that is not really a confirmation, but doesn’t pursue it either. He’s being quite respectful about having the object of his obsession on his lap, despite his... obvious physical enthusiasm for it. The silence that follows is, from Dave’s perspective at least, somewhere between awkward and comfortable.

“Um?”

“What’s up?” Dave can feel Dirk’s voice rumble in his chest and subtly presses his face into it even more.

“You had a boyfriend?”

“What?” Dirk takes a second to compute this conversational leap, but he jumps to where Dave is with surprising grace, despite being caught off guard. Dave can feel Dirk lean back, probably wanting to look at him in order to figure out where the fuck this topic came from, but he doesn’t yield any ground. “Not for long. Just part of the summer. Why?”

“No reason. I’m just being a good teacher, you dig? Showing interest in your life.” Totally haven’t been thinking about it every day since the first day of the school year! Dave’s voice sounds kind of shrill to his own ears. “Why not for long?”

The momentary silence from Dirk’s end is probably contemplative, but it makes Dave’s pulse pick up all the same. “Any number of reasons. He was going back home in the fall and I’m not about long distance, he was probably more interested in girls and he was pretty afraid to commit, we worked better as friends than boyfriends because of said fear of commitment coupled with my obsessive, overbearing nature, the sex wasn’t really what I was hoping for.” Each answer sounds detached, more indifferent than sad, though some curiosity does manages to slip through his toneless voice. “You want more? He wasn’t you.” He pauses, as if to let that settle in. “Honestly, I think the only reason we tried it at all was because neither of us were that invested in the outcome. Just a momentary distraction, something fun and easy, someone safe to experiment with. It was Jake, by the way, since you’re being cagey about asking directly. Though maybe you already guessed that.”

That sure was a lot of information that just got said, topped off with the revelation that Dirk’s feelings for Dave have definitely, at least once, got in the way of his having a relationship with a boy his age. The weight of it is honestly a little overwhelming, but it earned eye contact, or at least Dave’s face being visible. He sits up, resting his hands lightly on Dirk’s shoulders (they are extremely nice shoulders, his horny lizard brain informs him with exceedingly inappropriate timing), and studies his face solemnly. 

Dirk meets Dave’s inspection of him like it’s a challenge, eyebrow raised and mouth quirked. His eyes, in contrast, are as serious as Dave’s, intense with harsh honesty—willing Dave to understand that he hasn’t been fucking around even a little, that almost every decision he made was intentional, some step in his plan to get Dave. “I told you I had been practicing.”

“That seems normal,” Dave says dryly. Dirk openly referencing their phone sex encounter still feels kind of jarring. He had to basically compartmentalize in order to function, and that night still kind of feels like it exists in its own bubble, separate from reality.

Dirk shrugs again. “I know you’re being sarcastic, but I’m not sure what else you expected from me.” He regards Dave’s expression for a moment, then affectionately laughs in his face. “Did you know that your eyes get fuckin’ huge whenever I mention the phone sex? No wonder you’re always wearing shades.”

“Jesus!” Dave shoves Dirk in the shoulder, his face hot with embarrassment. “Did you know you’re an obnoxious tool and your dick is really small, probably?”

“Hm. You think?” Dirk replies, and he doesn’t have to do anything other than smile to make Dave immediately aware of the obvious untruth of his insult, pressing right up against his ass. 

“Okay. I’m getting off your lap now.”

“Wait, sorry,” Dirk says quickly, showing his palms innocently—a sharp contrast from the expression on his face. “Don’t leave, Dave. I like you where you are.”

Dave frowns kind of poutily, uneasily aware of the fact that he’s being cute on purpose, and of how ridiculous that is, given their relative ages. “No shit, you do.”

Dirk’s smile gets wider for just a moment, then settles back into the unreadable line he usually wears. “All of these oblique references to my dick aren’t actually helping.” 

“Okay, do you actually want me to stay on your lap? Maybe you should stop talking about your dick, and also stop accusing me of talking about your dick. Just some constructive criticism, up to you if you wanna take it.”

“Alright, no more dick discussion. I definitely want you to stay on my lap. I’m committing every second of this to memory and would like to prolong it as much as possible.” 

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Dave replies, his sarcastic tone masking the fact that he’s genuinely affected by the sentiment. But then his mood shifts, becoming more serious. “Dirk.” His fingers brush Dirk’s jaw, feather light, like he’s afraid to allow himself a more substantial touch. “It would be better for you to be with a boy your age. For a lot of reasons, not just the ones I’ve been beating like the deadest horse that ever broke its leg on a treacherous mountain trail and had to get tragically shot by its loving cowboy companion. And I do mean one of those cowboys from Brokeback Mountain.” He pauses dramatically. “I wish I knew how to quit you, Dirk.”

“Fuck, I am so in love with you,” Dirk murmurs adoringly under his breath, quiet enough that he could just be talking to himself—but Dave is only inches away. He clears his throat gently. “I don’t mind repeating it until you believe it, but shit, Dave. C’mon. I don’t want anyone else, I’m not interested in boys my age. I know what I’m doing, I’m not confused and I don’t need convincing that it’s a bad idea, because I’m never going to think you’re a bad idea.”

It’s frankly impossible not to kiss him after that, so Dave cups his face in both hands and bends down to press his lips softly against Dirk’s. He stays close, bare inches from Dirk’s face. “I don’t know how to say no to you now,” he whispers hoarsely, his feelings thick in his throat.

“Say it the way you’ve always said it. I’m not going to make you do something you don’t want to do,” Dirk sounds almost pained when he says this, all too aware how overbearing he can be. He leans his forehead into Dave’s. “I’m willing to do pretty much anything for you.”

“If I’m being totally honest, I don’t really get why.” Dave leans back so he can study Dirk’s face, smoothing fingers tenderly over his hairline. “I’m not…” He pauses to swallow the lump in his throat. “I’m not anything particularly special.”

Dirk looks skeptical until he realizes Dave is being serious. “What the fuck. You know the _reason_ I’ve been practicing is because I know you can get it, Dave, and I’m trying to fucking compete.”

“Okay, I’m setting aside my own overwhelming insecurity here, as well as the fact that you don’t actually know anything about my sex life or my romantic history, because I feel like you just told me you think the best thing you have to offer is good sex? Dirk, jesus, that’s not any kind of bullshit I can let stand.” 

“Oh my god.” Dirk actually looks cowed and his face gets a little darker, unable to stand up to full-on teacher-mode Dave. His dick doesn’t seem to be suffering at all for it though. “That’s absolutely not what I meant.” He breathes in through his nose. “I mean, you aren’t wrong—I do want to offer you good sex, but I mostly just _don’t_ want my relative inexperience to get in the way of a relationship with you.” A pause. “You made fun of me for not having deepthroated before.” Instead of insecure, he sounds more amused than anything else, looking sideways through his lashes at Dave.

“I was drunk,” Dave snaps, exasperated. “And that’s not a fully accurate depiction of what I was making fun of you for.” He’s at least halfway aware that Dirk is just fucking with him now, but he’s deep in protect-this-child mode, and it’s hard to switch off.

Dirk hums like he doesn’t know what Dave is talking about. “I still haven’t done that with anyone.”

“Okay,” Dave says in a strained voice. “That’s fine.”

“Because I was saving it for your dick,” Dirk adds, like Dave hadn’t spoken at all.

“Okay!” Dave says again, embarrassingly high-pitched. “I’m getting off your lap now, for real.”

“Since I did renege on our agreement, you’re free to go,” Dirk says, leaning forward to almost cautiously kiss the edge of Dave’s mouth. “I’m sufficiently satiated anyway.”

Dirk’s lack of protest almost makes Dave want to stay where he is, as if it’s pointless if he isn’t doing it out of contrariness, but it’s probably a good idea anyway. He climbs off, but he can’t bring himself to stop touching Dirk entirely, and ends up settling beside him on the couch, head nestled against his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do,” he says quietly. With hormones receding, cold reality is settling into his chest. Sitting on Dirk’s lap, making out with him and pretending like everything is normal… it’s seductive. It feels incredibly good, actually, but he knows that feeling can’t last.

“What do you want?” Dirk asks, echoing his earlier question, but soft this time, undemanding.

“I want to not hurt you.” Dave heaves a sigh. “And of the choices in front of me, it seems like one of them probably will, and one definitely will.”

Dave feels the body next to him tense, the mood in the room shifting rapidly. “Maybe consider that I’m not a fucking flower—I’m actually pretty damn resilient. You can’t protect me from everything.” Dirk’s voice is almost low enough to mask any obvious emotion, but throatiness gives him away. “It’s my choice, Dave.”

Dave sits up so he can look Dirk in the eye. “Yeah, I guess it is. And you’re a teenager, which means you’re entitled to make dumb choices, and I can’t stop you. But this is my choice too, and I’m a grown-ass man. I don’t have that luxury anymore. I have to make the _right_ choice, or I’m straight up not the dude I want to be. You’re right, Dirk, I do want this.” His hand touches Dirk’s chest, shakingly, and withdraws. Dirk flinches. “I want you.” The words burn his eyes and throat just to speak them. Dirk doesn’t look happy. He looks like he knows exactly what Dave is going to say and is trying to brace himself. “But I don’t know how to be _okay_ with that.”

“Could you learn?” Dirk asks, now very obviously pained in both his voice and his expression. Dave feels it like shards of glass in his chest. He looks away.

“I don’t know,” he rasps, “And I can’t do this half-hearted, Dirk. I can’t say yes just because I want to, and find out later that I can’t live with myself. That would hurt you worse than not doing it at all.”

“I can’t convince you,” Dirk replies, his carefully controlled tone implying that he desperately wants to, that he is trying to figure out how he can—and is furious that he can’t come up with something else. 

“You can’t,” Dave says firmly. “I’m sorry.”

Dirk stares at him as if looking for a crack or weakness to exploit and slowly slips back into his blank mask. An eternity passes in a handful of seconds before Dirk flips his sunglasses down and stands up, tight-lipped and unreadable, face turned towards the art above the television. The absence of his body heat leaves Dave cold, and the feeling spreads and intensifies through his body as Dirk speaks.

“That’s fucking bullshit, Dave,” he says finally, flat and hollow. “You call me when you’re drunk and horny, you kiss me back when I kiss you, you invite me to your house and you sit on my lap, and then you say shit like you can’t live with yourself, just because you want me like I want you. Fine. I’m not going to manipulate you into a relationship with me, but this keeps happening even when you say you can’t do it—and I’m not going to be the one who stops it.” 

Dirk words come fast and tinged with anger, but he’s backing towards the hallway rather than pushing forward. “Will you be able to face me on Monday? It’s already too much, Dave. I don’t know what else to say to make you understand that the guilt and responsibility you feel is pointless in this instance. You aren’t ruining me.” 

He freezes at the living room entrance like he’s on the edge of a cliff and debating whether to throw himself off of it, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “But go ahead and make whatever choice you want, since you’ve already decided they are all going to hurt me. I’ll see myself out.” 

It seems like the front door opens and closes before Dave even has the chance to watch Dirk go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry the end is so sad it's going to get better we promise!!!! happy ending is coming!!!!!!!!!!


	3. and all of my sadness taken by the sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strider manpain ahoy!

Two days after the worst day of Dave’s life, Dirk arrives late to class, with a dark purple hickey just barely peeking over his collar. Dave stares for too long, then looks away, his eyes avoiding Dirk for the rest of the class period in a manner almost as conspicuous.

It’s none of his business anymore. Dave might want to protect Dirk, but he can’t actually keep him from self-destruction if that’s what he’s set his indomitable will towards. Considering Dave’s own behavior, it would be insufferably hypocritical anyway, and after knowingly breaking Dirk’s heart, Dave doesn’t feel he has the right to try and stop him from dealing with it however he wants.

And he most definitely wants. Gone are the days of his name and number written on bathroom stalls, but Dirk still comes into class with his hair disheveled and a dark, dangerous look in his eyes. He’s almost never on time anymore. His classmates, especially the boys, either whisper behind his back or high-five him (or both) when they think Dave isn’t paying attention. One particular day, a stretching motion from Dirk’s desk catches his eye and, when he looks, he sees the ends of thin red lines—fingernail scratches—on the small of Dirk’s back where his shirt lifts to reveal skin. Dave feels sure it’s deliberate, calculated to torture him. He does know Dirk well enough to realize that he’s comforting himself, papering over his pain with meaningless sex, but he’s also using it as a weapon to lash out at Dave without ever having to speak a harsh word. It’s effective. 

He can’t sleep. He tries, tossing and turning for hours every night while his mental movie projector plays a film on repeat of Dirk’s hurt, angry face, intercut with memories of what it was like to kiss him. It’s agonizing and interminable, but it feels like the punishment he deserves, and he forces himself to take it. Some nights he can’t, and ends up in front of the TV, numbing himself with junk food and infomercials until his body shuts down from exhaustion and he finally passes out on the couch. After a week of this misery, he’s coming to work with dark circles and a noticeable exhausted stoop. By the end of the second week, he’s visibly coming apart, and several of his students and coworkers are asking him daily if he’s doing okay. Dirk never asks. He just stares.

A month goes by. It feels like years.

He’s at his kitchen table, halfway focusing on an AP Art History lesson plan, when a crisp, oddly familiar rap at the door makes him jump. He knows he must look hells of haggard, but can’t even be bothered to glance at his reflection in the toaster before heading to the door. He has reason to regret that when he finds Dirk on the other side, looking almost punishingly good. He’s not sure what else he expected; it’s not like Jehovah’s Witnesses are out proselytizing on Friday nights. Reflexively, he runs a hand through his hair.

“Uh. Why are you here?”

For a moment, it seems like even Dirk doesn’t really know. He wears his sunglasses like a barricade, but they don’t hide the tense uncertainty in his body language. He shifts on his feet like an animal ready to bolt, but then he looks at Dave. and his demeanor shifts. “You need to sleep,” he states in his flattest voice, the one he uses to cover up strong emotions. 

What. “Okay?” Has he lost so much sleep that he’s straight up hallucinating now?

“Great. We’re in agreement.” There’s a poorly concealed snarl in Dirk’s voice, and he moves decisively towards the doorway. Dave flinches back, responding instinctively to the aggression in Dirk’s manner. It gets him a stare, something almost like disbelief on Dirk’s face, but it’s hard to say whether it’s Dave’s reaction or his own that he’s having a hard time coming to terms with. “Invite me in, Dave.” His tone is attempting something commanding, but there is a note of pleading that slips in, like he can’t quite not care if he gets rejected a second (third?) time.

It’s that latter, probably unintentional note that works on Dave. He’s confused, and whatever this is, it’s definitely a bad idea, but the idea of once again making Dirk feel unwanted is unbearable. He’ll take the consequences. He steps aside, gesturing Dirk in.

Dirk moves like he doesn’t want give Dave an opportunity to change his mind, brushing quickly past him into the hallway. He seems to know where he wants to go, so Dave follows him bemusedly.

“I don’t feel like you actually answered my question.”

“I definitely answered it,” Dirk replies shortly, weaving into the kitchen. He opens two different cupboard before he finds where the glasses are and fills one with water. “Drink this.”

Dirk is so authoritative that Dave has already taken a sip before he realizes what he’s doing. Reassured that Dave is obeying him, Dirk turns around and opens the fridge, perusing the contents. He systematically checks every item in there, turning them around in his hands and finding expiration dates, looking a little judgmental at the quantity (and quality) of takeout leftovers. 

“Dirk, what are you doing?”

He closes the fridge door but doesn’t move otherwise, doesn’t face Dave. His shoulders are drawn tight, posture either angry or anxious or sad—but Dave can’t see his expression. “You aren’t taking care of yourself, so I’m doing it for you.” His voice gives him away: he’s all three in equal parts.

Dave opens his mouth to tell Dirk that taking care of Dave isn’t his job, then realizes how Dirk would take that, and has another drink of water instead. “Why?” he says cautiously.

Dirk releases a soft sigh that doesn’t seem to decrease the tension in his body at all. “Why do you think?” he asks.

Dave stares into his glass. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “Shouldn’t you hate me? I kind of hate me.” Whoops, he didn’t mean to say that last part out loud. Exhaustion is killing his filter. “Fuck, never mind.”

“Dave.” Dirk finally turns around and his expression is pained and frustrated. “I fucking asked you if you’d be able to face me. Do you think I want to watch you self-destructing?” He combs his fingers roughly up through his hair, adding to its verticality. He looks overwhelmed, but then he takes a deep breath and seems to gather himself, tidying the papers all over the kitchen table. “Even if I did hate you, which I don’t,” he tacks on, almost angrily, before continuing, “I’d still do this. You’re going to make yourself sick and I can’t just sit back when I know I can fix it.” He straightens a stack of papers against the table with a little more force than necessary. “Drink.”

Dave watches Dirk tidying his lesson plans, trying to process what he’s just said. “Dirk, I’m a grown ass man. I’m fine. Whatever I might be dealing with, it’s my problem. You don’t have to be taking care of me when I just—” His voice breaks, and he stops, clears his throat, forces himself to put words to it: “When I just broke your heart. Go home. Take care of yourself. Please.”

Pushing his shades to the top of his head, Dirk gives Dave a look that isn’t quite cold, but is a little hard and intensely direct. “Drink your water, Dave.”

“I’m drinking, I’m drinking.” Dirk obviously doesn’t want to talk, and Dave is tired, and doesn’t really want Dirk to leave anyway, so he stops pushing and sits down at the table to drink his water while Dirk watches him. When he’s finished, Dirk takes the glass and refills it.

“Is your plan to get me to piss out my sadness?”

“Where’s your bathroom?” Dirk asks, and the deja vu is especially jarring when he looks so dead fucking serious.

“What? I was joking about the piss thing.”

“Yeah, I got it—but I wasn’t actually playing along. Where is it?”

Dave points, and Dirk nods, then stands expectantly next to Dave’s chair. Dave hesitates, then stands.

“C’mon,” Dirk says, almost, but not quite touching Dave’s shoulder as he heads in the direction that Dave pointed. Dave follows, feeling unsteady. Even with his back to Dave, Dirk’s mere existence in his space both burns and soothes him. Dirk enters the bathroom and gives a quick, contemplative look to the shower and apparently dismisses the idea in favor of preparing Dave’s toothbrush for him. That’s a little humiliating, but Dave decides it’s easier not to fight, and just brushes his teeth.

Dirk watches, leaning casually against the towel bar on the wall, but still managing to give the impression of hovering. “You should wash your face,” he “suggests,” though he is fooling no one pretending he isn’t entirely running this operation. The water is warm and eases the throbbing in Dave’s head and the ache in his tired eyes. It feels good when he sloshes palmfuls over the back of his tipped head, and the shower actually looks tempting. But if Dirk isn’t insisting, Dave isn’t about to bring it up. There’s something too intimate and strangely painful about thinking of Dirk waiting for him on the couch, in his apartment, while he showers. 

Hair dripping and face clean, he turns towards the towels, and Dirk has one spread between his hands for him. He even lifts it to Dave’s face—it’s the closest he’s gotten to actually touching Dave all evening, and Dave finds himself taking a step forward and pressing his face into it without a second thought. Dirk gently towels his face and his hair, and even that indirect contact feels so good that he almost starts crying. He wants to say something to Dirk, but it’s like the emotions are so big that they can’t fit past his throat, so they stay caught in his chest, throbbing painfully. Instead he lets Dirk lead him to his bedroom, which is close enough to the bathroom that Dirk doesn’t have to ask for directions.

As he enters the room, Dirk inhales audibly, but when Dave tries to look at him, he turns so his face isn’t in view. He doesn’t noticeably look around, but he somehow he manages to head directly towards Dave’s dresser and rifles through it for something clean. An old t-shirt and soft, worn out sweatpants land in Dave’s arms, but Dirk doesn’t give instructions this time. He just turns tail and walks out of the room. Dave hears him in the hallway, releasing the breath he had apparently been holding.

Dave just stands there holding the clothes, still not entirely sure what’s happening. Intensely aware of Dirk, outside the door, it takes him a hot second to work up the nerve to actually change. Once he’s done, he looks around helplessly. 

Dirk appears in the doorway, holding the glass of water and looking mildly uncertain. Dave’s heart physically aches with protective urges.

“Just come in.” Dave sighs. “I guess I’m getting in bed now, even though it’s barely 8 PM and I’m not ninety years old.”

Once he has permission, Dirk’s uncertainty vanishes, and he carries the water to Dave’s bedside table. “Act like an invalid, get treated like an invalid. Sorry, Dave. You need a lot of sleep to unfuck this debt you’ve been accruing.”

“I am not acting like an invalid,” Dave protests. “I don’t need to have my bedtime enforced.” What if he still can’t sleep? What if it’s even harder, knowing Dirk is outside his door?

Dirk looks him up and down slowly, clinically. “The evidence suggests otherwise.”

Unable to argue with that, Dave sits heavily on the edge of the bed and stares at his hands. “It’s not like I haven’t been trying,” he says quietly. “I just can’t.”

“I get it,” Dirk says, a little more gently now. He shuffles his hands through his hair. “I have insomnia all the time. I can be rock solid emotionally and sleep still fuckin’ hates me.”

“I know,” Dave says quietly, and Dirk acknowledges him with an oddly awkward nod, like he had been trying not to imply that he thought Dave would remember that fact. That hurts a little. Dave remembers everything Dirk tells him.

“I know some tricks though,” he continues, rocking back on his heels. “I can show you?”

Dave’s exhausted brain wastes no time in producing a series of increasingly vivid, technicolor images of what those “tricks” might be: Dirk pushing him down on the bed and straddling him, Dirk wringing out his self-loathing with a hand on his cock… Dirk in the bed with him, holding him until he falls asleep. That last, chaste scenario is what actually brings on a blush, and he shakes it off physically. Dirk’s face starts to close off again and, realizing his misunderstanding, Dave hastily holds up a hand.

“No, sorry, I didn’t—Please show me,” he says sheepishly.

Dirk hesitates, almost suspicious as he scrutinizes Dave’s reddened face. Then he gestures for Dave to lie down. “You should get comfortable.”

“I’ve never been comfortable in my life,” Dave mumbles, lying down and pulling the covers over himself. God, his bed feels good, like his aching bones are trying to sink into the mattress, but his painful awareness of Dirk’s presence keeps tension singing through his limbs.

“This is awkward. You can sit,” he says, patting the mattress beside him. “If you want.” He covers his face with his hands, continuing without waiting for Dirk to move or respond. “I’m a _fucking_ idiot. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Dirk agrees, but the sheets shift and the bed dips with the weight of him as he sits. The mixed emotions radiating off of him are practically palpable despite the cushioning of the mattress—it’s like he’s ready to leap into outer fucking space at the first sign of rejection, while still wanting to be closer. 

Mildly hysterical with sleep deprivation, nerves, and discomfort, Dave thinks, _this isn’t at all how he said it would go on the phone_.

“So, you should probably stop covering your face first,” Dirk says. His flat voice is soothing, but also much too close, despite him perching on the very edge of the mattress a good distance away from Dave’s body. “It’s best to be in a neutral position, and you should be working on relaxing your muscles in groups. I can do like, a guided meditation for you.” He pauses. “Though maybe telling you what to do in bed is not going to be a calming sleep experience for you.”

“ _Jesus_ , Dirk.” Dave yanks the covers over his face.

Dirk calmly peels them back down. “I’m serious, Dave. Settle down, lie back, keep your hands at your sides.”

“That still sounds like you’re talking about sex.”

Dirk shrugs one shoulder unapologetically. “If that’s what you’re into.”

Oh, it is, if that’s what Dirk wants him to do. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Not helping. “This is not what I’d call a relaxing line of conversation.”

“You led us down it. Will you stop fucking levitating above your pillow and actually lie down?”

“I did not,” Dave grumbles, but he closes his eyes and tries to relax. It’s impossible, with Dirk almost close enough to feel body heat, but he tries.

“It’s too difficult to force your whole body to relax all at once so I usually try to relax it in segments. It narrows your focus, so you stop thinking about—” Dirk hesitates only slightly—“stressful things.” He doesn’t actually touch Dave, but Dave can feel him move his hand in the air over Dave’s wrist. “Start with your fingers. Think about the tension in your tendons, in the muscles in your palms and wrist, and force your body to release it.”

“Okay.” Dave tries. Nothing happens. Dirk is _right there._ “How?” he whines.

“Here, look. It’s like,” Dave peeks through his eyelashes as Dirk shifts the hand that was hovering over him, showing splayed fingers as he flexes it. The muscles jump out under his skin with tension, then slowly, the tautness in his skin turns to softness and his fingers curl slightly. Dave is never going to be able to relax. “It’s the same feeling as when you stop tensing up. Like catching yourself clenching your jaw and unclenching it.”

Dave reflexively unclenches his jaw and nearly winces from the dull ache in his muscles. Dirk sighs softly through his nose and gives a slightly sad smile.

Dave’s half-lidded eyes stray to Dirk’s arm, its bicep bulging out of his t-shirt sleeve, even at rest. “I’m not sure I get it,” he says impulsively. “Maybe if I could feel…?” He feels himself start to turn pink even before the sentence is done leaving his mouth. What is he doing? Not keeping a lid on his horniness is what got him into this awkward-ass situation in the first place. “Nevermind. Sorry,” he mumbles, flinging an arm over his face.

“Will that help you _relax_?” Dirk asks seriously, voice cutting sharp and doubtful on the last word.

“I said never mind!” Whatever tension he just let go of, it’s back now. Jesus, why can’t he open his mouth for two seconds without trying to win the world’s most self-destructive dumbass award? “This isn’t gonna work.”

Dirk’s face closes off again. “I want to make sure you fall asleep, but if my presence is only stressing you out, I should go,” he states in his most rational tone, comforting neither of them.

Dave wants to wail aloud. “No,” he says instead, grabbing Dirk’s wrist without really thinking about it. “Dirk, that’s not what I meant. Stay.” He huffs out a breath. “It’s just”—he waves his free hand impatiently—“this. Relaxation techniques or whatever. I’m sure they’re great and I’m glad they help you, but they’re not what I need right now.” Dirk raises a sardonic brow and Dave sputters clarification. “ _Talking_. I just want to talk to you.” Too afraid to look at Dirk’s face, he stares at the ceiling. “If you want.”

The responding silence is probably introspective, but it still kind of makes Dave want to die. He can feel Dirk’s eyes studying his face. “Okay,” Dirk replies finally, ever so slightly flexing his wrist under Dave’s grip. Dave squeezes it tighter in automatic response. The chill and responsible thing to do would probably be to keep his hands to himself now that Dirk’s agreed to stay, but he can’t bring himself to loosen his grip. He’s been aching to touch Dirk for weeks, and even this minimal contact is too dear to let go. 

“What,” Dirk starts uncertainly, “did you want to talk about? I’m having some difficulty coming up with topics that are suitable for this particular social situation.”

“You don’t have the tools?” Dave snorts, but there’s little humor in it.

“I had the tools. You rejected them,” Dirk replies tersely.

Dave scrubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m the tool,” he concludes inevitably. “This is fucked up, what I’m doing. I’m supposed to be the one who takes care of _you._ Instead I’m letting you—I don’t even know what you’re trying to accomplish. Or what I’m trying to accomplish. His tone is growing more and more hysterical, he is vaguely aware through a haze of exhaustion and overwrought emotion. “Why are you here? You shouldn’t be here, and I’m letting you stay because I _miss_ you, and that’s _fucked up_ , Dirk. It’s selfish.”

Dirk barely blinks, rolling right past Dave’s emotionally naked admission to target his self-loathing instead. “You know what else is selfish? Not fucking taking care of yourself when everyone is worried about you.” Especially me, Dirk is broadcasting with everything but his words. “Obviously that’s why I'm here.” 

Dave can’t tell if the note of hurt feelings in Dirk’s voice is wishful thinking or what. There’s a lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit and twenty times as bitter.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Dave repeats stubbornly. “You’re smarter than this, Dirk. You should be at home, studying, or watching dumb movies with your sister, or shit, even at some shitty cool kid party sucking a football team’s worth of dick if you want. It’s really up to you.” His voice cracks. “Anything but babysitting the irresponsible shithead who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants around his students. Student.”

“I mean, your dick has never been out of your pants in my physical presence.” Dirk shrugs. “Just to be completely accurate.”

“That technicality doesn’t exactly provide me with a whole load of moral high ground to park my ephebophilic ass on.”

Dirk purses his lips, but Dave cuts him off at the pass.

“It doesn’t, Dirk. I hopped off my high horse the second I drunk texted you a lameass pickup line, and then I slapped that horse on the ass and it ran the fuck off into the sunset without me. I’m scum.” Exhaustion loosens his tongue, and the words just keep rolling off it. “There’s no defense for what I did, and definitely none for me proceeding to be too chickenshit to deal with the consequences like a fucking adult, the way I should’ve.” He feels a sob rising in the back of his throat and swallows it. Dirk shouldn’t have to comfort him. “Even this is just me asking for absolution from the kid I should have known better than to hurt in the first place, like it’s your responsibility to fix my fucking mess.”

“I’m not here out of a sense of responsibility,” Dirk says tightly. That kills Dave’s momentum a bit, but Dirk is evidently happy to pick up it up from him. “I know in your eyes I’m _just a kid_ —unless you’re sufficiently shitfaced apparently—but I actually do know how to feel about my own life without you telling me. I know where I want to be and where I should be. I get to choose that. Not you.”

Dave sits in the uncomfortable silence for a while, feeling he deserves it—that he owes it to Dirk. “I know,” he says finally, quietly.

“Do you?” Dirk shoots back, and he winces.

“Totally justified burn. Sorry.” Dave makes a wordless, exasperated noise, aimed entirely at himself. “I really fucked up, didn’t I. Yeah, I did,” he answers himself without pausing. “And I don’t just mean the, the,” he waves a hand loosely, “you know, the phone sex, and the kissing—”

“And the climbing on my lap,” Dirk interjects.

“Shut up, Dirk, fucking with me right now is not necessary, thank you very much. I mean the other stuff. The feelings stuff, the ‘I’m an adult and I know better’ bullshit when I couldn’t even back that up with what I actually got down and did. I just made it worse for you. And for me, but that doesn’t really matter.” The hard line of Dirk’s mouth suggests that it matters to _him_ , and that squeezes Dave’s chest unbearably tight. Suddenly tears well up in his eyes. “I miss you,” he says again, but it feels like a fresh confession, the words clawing painfully from his throat. “I feel like I’m not allowed to.”

“I get to choose that too.” Dirk’s rich, beautiful (beloved) voice is gentler now, softer and it seems to sink into Dave’s tense muscles, relaxing them better than any mindfulness exercise could.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Abruptly Dave realizes he’s still holding on to Dirk’s wrist. Slowly, like it’s the scariest thing he’s ever done (it is), he slides his fingers down to lace them with Dirk’s. Dirk squeezes his hand tightly, without hesitation, and the tears spill onto his cheeks.

“I didn’t mean that thing I said,” Dave mumbles.

“I know.”

“About sucking jock dick. Their dicks don’t deserve you.”

“I know,” Dirk repeats, a touch of laughter in his voice. It sounds so good to Dave’s ears.

 _I don’t either_ , Dave thinks, but Dirk would only argue that point, and probably get upset again, so he keeps it to himself and rubs his thumb over the back of Dirk’s hand instead.

“I hate it,” he declares, a little too loud. The drunkenness of exhaustion is setting in. He should probably stop talking now.

“You’ve made that much clear,” Dirk says dryly.

“I’m jealous,” Dave continues, because why fucking not at this point. He’s about as far in the statutory hole as he can get. (Oh no he’s not, his inner voice starts in, but he shushes it.) This super obvious revelation is followed by silence lasting long enough to let anxiety start to creep back in.

“Dave?” There is a note of tension in Dirk’s voice now, a roughness. “What does all this actually mean?”

Oh. “I don’t know,” Dave says honestly. He stares at the ceiling. “I thought I was picking the safest option from an array of shitty choices. The one that risked hurting you the least.” He sighs. “I still don’t think I was wrong. You’re still a teenager, and I’m still an adult. And I’m still your teacher. And that’s still fucked.”

“And?” Dirk’s tense expectation is palpable, even to Dave’s exhaustion-dulled senses.

“And this is hurting you anyway, and I can’t hurt you anymore.”

Dirk makes a noise of exasperation and squeezes Dave’s hand so tight it’s almost painful. “What do _you_ _want_ , Dave?” 

“I want you,” Dave says simply, and he’s so tired that he doesn’t even feel guilty for saying it out loud.

Dave expects to see the smug, victorious expression he’s so intimately familiar with, but instead, Dirk just looks relieved, and suddenly every bit as young as he is. He releases his breath through his teeth, like he’s been holding it. “Okay,” he says, then seems to remember himself and repeats more firmly, “Okay.” His grip on Dave’s hand loosens, but barely, and his eyes can only be described as smoldering. It’s the first time Dave has seen him happy in a month.

“I’m so sleepy,” Dave announces, apropos of nothing. All the tension in his muscles has mysteriously vanished, and he’s finally ready to sleep.

Dirk quickly leans back. “Right, yeah. You think you’ll be able to sleep?” Dave doesn’t know whether or not he’s imagining the hopeful, leading tone in Dirk’s question and he doesn’t want to analyze how either option would make him feel.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to awake,” Dave slurs. He feels heavy and slow, and safe. “Will you stay?” he asks, sounding like a child. “I just need a little nap. Then we can talk.” He rolls onto his side, nestling into the covers, and just passes the fuck out before he can hear Dirk’s answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god sorry we keep changing the goalposts on this one... the good news is we already have over 4k words of chapter 4 written and that one will DEFINITELY ACTUALLY be the last chapter. we swear. anyway sorry we disappeared for a while we both had writers block from HELL but we still love this au and y'all and we are overwhelmed and hashtag blessed by all the kudos and comments and love coming at us for this series!!!!! thank u for going on this highly inappropriate and immoral journey with us


	4. and i want you, and that's so terrifying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy belated bday to these two dummies
> 
> ive given up on trying to make dave not creepy and so has dave i guess

Dave would have sworn on his mother’s hypothetical grave that he was only closing his eyes for a second, but when he opens them again, there’s soft light coming through his bedroom window. Morning. He shifts, feeling the heaviness of deep sleep in his limbs. He’s still pretty tired. One unbroken night of sleep won’t fix weeks of deprivation, but his head feels a lot clearer than it did last night.

Last night…

Oh, fucksticks. He sits bolt upright like some kind of ridiculous Saturday morning cartoon cliché, and nearly brains himself on the headboard. It makes a pretty loud _thunk_ , and the resulting stream of swear words that issues from his mouth is even louder.

As memories from the night before trickle back into his consciousness, he grows more and more horrified with himself. He asked Dirk to stay. God, why did he do that? That’s so creepy! Please sleep on my couch all night, teen boy, I’m totally not a predator! He can’t remember how Dirk answered, and doesn’t know which potential outcome makes him feel more anxious and guilty. He paces between the door and the bed several times, his desire to see Dirk’s face and to empty his bladder (with roughly equal urgency) warring with his terror of facing the consequences of _admitting_ what he wants and, even worse, his irrational conviction that Dirk must have finally thought better of the whole mess and ditched.

“You’re a grown fucking man, Dave,” he mutters. “You’re the literal grownup here.” He grits his teeth and turns the doorknob, and it’s only after he hears the sounds of activity in the kitchen and his soul breathes a sigh of relief that he realizes his indecision may have been audible to its subject.

A little guiltily, he ducks into the bathroom first. “Emptying the radiator,” he mumbles to himself as he pisses, and laughs a little hysterically.

Walking down the hall to the bathroom, his chest is filled with dread and guilt and tentative happiness, so much that he feels like if he doesn’t breathe carefully, it might split open.

He finds Dirk making eggs, an image so incongruously domestic that he doesn’t quite know how to process it.

“I didn’t even know I had eggs,” is the first thing he says, like a fucking idiot.

“I figured as much when I saw all of your takeout leftovers yesterday,” Dirk responds without turning around.

“I can’t really cook. Not in the strictest sense of the word.” He tends to start fires. Mr. Egbert tried to teach him, but gave up years ago in favor of delivering him the occasional meal in a tupperware container, “To make sure you’re eating actual vegetables at least once a month, David.”

Dirk would really hate it if he knew Dave was thinking about his “rival” at this particular moment. For several seconds, Dave’s imagination, which is evidently not feeling as conflicted as the rest of him, spins out the resulting scenario of this hypothetical conflict. It ends with him bent over the kitchen table, pants around his knees.

Dirk snorts, unaware, while rummaging in the cupboard for plates. (In Dave’s imagination, he’s shoving Dave’s face cruelly into the cheap wood veneer surface, and Dave is letting him, spreading his legs in invitation.) “Come get your coffee,” he says, holding out a mug of liquid that looks to be more milk than coffee. Dirk eyes it, and Dave, judgmentally. “Also not in the strictest sense of the word.”

Dave blinks away the filthy double image and takes the mug. “Thanks.” He sips it. It’s perfect, of course. Dirk has made it his business to know exactly what Dave likes. “Did you sleep at all? Sorry my couch is a piece of shit.”

“Yeah, some. I’ve slept on worse.” Dirk’s eyes trace Dave with attempted nonchalance. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a rock with narcolepsy.” After a few sips, the caffeine kicks in sufficiently for Dave to finally fully process the implications of Dirk still being here. He nearly spits out his coffee. “Does your mother know where you are? Oh my god.”

Dirk stares at him as if he’s grown a second head during his twelve hours of sleep. “Are you asking if I told my mom that I spent the night at my twenty-nine-year-old teacher’s apartment because he was having an emotional breakdown about our illicit relationship? Because, no, she doesn’t know that I’m here.”

Dave’s stomach drops horribly, and it must show on his face, because Dirk immediately gets his phone out and pushes it towards Dave. “She isn’t worried though. Just—it’s okay. Look.”

Mom (martini emoji orange heart emoji white blond scientist emoji)  
  
**Mom:** heyyyy baby u rnt home???   
  
**Mom:** evrythgn good?  
  
**Mom:** lmk if momma needs to call the cops aka the (pig emoji tongue out emoji)  
  
**Dirk:** Everything’s fine, Mom. I’m fine. No police needed.  
  
**Dirk:** I know you know this, but they are actually more likely to put me in danger, so maybe don’t call them even if you are worried in the future.  
  
**Mom:** dw bb i got u (meaningless tea emoji)  
  
**Dirk:** Not quite an appropriate application of tea, but good attempt. Proud of you for going for it.  
  
**Mom:** aww thx sweetie   
  
**Mom:** also pls cum get some pcakes at some point bc i made em from def not a box this morm   
  
**Dirk:** Please don’t abbreviate come like that, Mom. We’ve talked about it multiple times.  
  
**Mom:** o duh lolol my b  
  
**Mom:** moms r liek SOOO embaerassssing amirite????   
  
**Dirk:** Ugh, yeah. So embarrassing.  
  
**Mom:** ugh yeha ur so CUTE  
  
**Dirk:** I've got to go now, Mom. Save me some p-cakes.  
  
**Mom:** ofc bayb luv u luv u luv u x lotz  
  
**Mom:** (rainbow of emoji hearts)  
  
**Mom:** ill c u (kissy cat face emoji)er my good beaituful boy be safe dont get teen pragnents n call if u need me  
  
**Dirk:** See you cat-er, Mom. Love you too.  
  


“My mom is cool,” Dirk says, almost defensively while Dave reads. It’s so sweet, and sounds so high school, that Dave has to laugh a little—but then Dirk’s phone buzzes and a message notification pops up at the top. Dave has just enough time to see that Roxy has sent a text consisting solely of a barrage of pencils and sweatdrops before Dirk yanks the phone away.

“Why pencils?”

Dirk doesn't quite look embarrassed but he does consider Dave carefully before answering.

“They are an implement that might be used in a school, particularly by an art teacher. Being vaguely phallic probably doesn’t hurt either. Roxy knows I’m here,” he adds as if to soothe further. It is not particularly soothing.

“Pencil dick isn’t really a compliment.” 

“Yeah, I told her that.”

“Um.” Dave hesitates, feeling a little creepy and self-serving for even asking the question. “Exactly how much does your sister know about…” He waves a hand lamely, apparently still too chickenshit to admit out loud what he’s doing, the personal and professional rules he’s breaking. “This.”

“Your kitchen?”

“About you know what, Dirk.”

“Voldemort?” Dirk is wearing his blandest expression, which is pretty fucking bland indeed.

“Yes, Dirk. I’m asking how much Roxy knows about Tom Marvolo fucking Riddle. I know what you’re doing.”

Dirk sips his coffee, which is black, like his soul. “What am I doing?”

“Fucking with me. Cut it out, it’s too early for your particular brand of bullshit.” Dave turns abruptly to the counter and pretends to busy himself with literally nothing.

“But not for yours, apparently.” Dirk turns smoothly back to the stove. “Eggs are done,” he announces, filling up two plates and plopping down at the kitchen table.

Dave gathers himself together, trying to will the blush away (unsuccessfully, judging by his hot face), and joins Dirk at the table.

“How much does your sister know about you and me,” he says, drawing each word out pointedly. If nothing else good can be said of him (and that seems increasingly likely), Dave Strider can respect a justified burn.

After shoveling a mouthful of eggs into his mouth, Dirk shrugs a shoulder. “How much are you cool with her knowing?”

Dave snorts. “‘Cool’ is not how I would describe my attitude to any part of this situation. Answer the question, you cagey little shit.” Dave tastes his own eggs. They’re incredible, naturally. He reminds himself that resenting another person for being good at everything they try is the purview of high school _students_ , not their supposedly mature, adult art teachers, and also that Dirk never does anything in front of other humans before practicing it a thousand times in private.

He really loves that about Dirk.

“I don’t like to keep Roxy in the dark about important happenings in my life. She’s my twin,” is his still somewhat cagey answer. “So, I’d say she knows just enough to prevent me from feeling overwhelmingly guilty and barely enough to satisfy her need to always be up in my biz about my romantic and sexual interests.”

“That surely is an answer.”

“Fine. She’s known since day one that I’ve had a crush on you. She knows I’ve somehow managed to get you to act on it—not the full extent or way in which you have done so—but she knows we’ve kissed. It was important to me, and she would have guessed anyway.” Dirk shrugs again, almost but not quite sheepish. “She knows I haven’t been talking about you lately, except when she brings you up, and she knows that I’ve been going out more than usual, so she’s almost definitely deduced that something went wrong. Yesterday, I told her I was going out to fix something. She probably guessed what was up from that unconvincingly vague excuse, and now, obviously, she knows I just spent the night here.” Dirk looks mildly at Dave. “You aren’t the only person I’m cagey with, but Roxy’s good at figuring things out.”

“I’m not mad that you talked to your sister about your life, Dirk,” Dave says gently. “I couldn’t ever ask you to keep anything about me or this business from anyone, least of all your family. That would pretty much be the definition of shady.” So is handling Dirk’s feelings in any way other than unequivocal rejection, but Dave has to draw the line somewhere. He takes a deep breath and another sip of his almost-coffee. “Roxy’s a good kid. I’m glad you have her.” Roxy, in typically unsubtle fashion, signed up for Dave’s photography class the semester after Dirk first took it. Dave is unabashedly fond of her, and it makes him a little sick that she’s keeping this secret for Dirk, and thus, indirectly, for Dave. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Jane knows a little too. And Jake,” Dirk says, focusing a little too intently on his eggs. 

Oh. “What does she say about it?” Dave tries to ask nonchalantly, but his voice comes out a little too high-pitched to pull it off. He wants to ask about Jake, but he’s uncomfortable with how _much_ he wants to (and why), so he doesn’t.

“That I’m being an asshole. She didn’t use those words, obviously, it was like equal parts hilariously charming and scathing. Lots of shit along the lines of ‘Oh poor Mister Strider, the unknowing victim of a harebrained Lalondesque scheme to have him sent promptly to the slammer, for no reason other than he’s rather good-looking and a certain single-minded dunderhead can’t control himself.’ She ripped into me for like, a good ten minutes for just admitting I was interested in you.” 

“I’m guessing you haven’t let her in on any of the literally incriminating details.” Sweet, straitlaced Jane doesn’t seem like she’d be quite so permissive as her bestie.

“Yeah, I mean, she wouldn’t blame you at all. She knows me too well to think that I would be responsive to efforts to put off my pursuit, which she’d fully expect from you. In other words, from her perspective, I’m the predator, not you.” Dirk chews the inside of his cheek. “She probably doesn’t think I’ve gotten anywhere with my extreme Dirk bullshit.” 

“Jane’s a good kid too. Deeply misguided about both of us, apparently, but sweet of her to have faith in me.” What is with all these teens being way too willing to offer him the benefit of the doubt when he’s done little to deserve it? Dave forces himself off that self-flagellant mental road, because Dirk seems to be in a good mood, and Dave wants him to stay that way. “Why is she friends with you again?”

“No idea,” Dirk says, but then adds, his voice tinged with self-conscious pride, “Actually, I think it’s because I make her laugh.”

“I guess if the bullshit she has to put up with doesn’t involve a relentless and illegal sexual pursuit, that’s a fair tradeoff. You are kind of funny. And you make pretty good eggs.” Dave makes a little salute with his fork.

“Some people are into my intensity, you know,” Dirk says, giving Dave a slanted look. “But thanks. I do make good eggs.”

“That seems unlikely. Can you give me an example?” Dave rejoins in a lame attempt to cover the already totally not secret fact that the answer is him, he is who. He only realizes after the words have left his mouth that he doesn’t really want to hear the answer. Jealousy sours his stomach, and he puts his fork down.

Dirk slyly helps himself to a bite off Dave’s plate and chews thoughtfully. “I don’t kiss and tell, Dave.” 

Dave tries not to pout at that vague answer, since it was obviously calculated to rile him. His jealousy is absurd anyway. Dirk was probably just talking about him, and fanning the flames of his jealousy on purpose.“That’s good news for me, I guess,” he quips, but flippantly referencing his own unsavory activities with a student pricks at his guilt, and he can feel his carefully breezy expression falter. He tries to change the subject. “So. Have any weekend homework?” Jesus. Lame.

“Already did it,” Dirk answers so smoothly that Dave can’t tell if he’s lying. “Aren’t you going to ask about Jake?”

“Nope. Ask what about Jake?” Dave is fooling no one, least of all himself.

“You were curious what my friends knew about us. Jake is my friend, and I just told you he knows about us,” Dirk replies with patient logic in his voice and shiteating smugness lurking in his bland expression.

“Oh. I’m cool, dude. I respect your privacy. I mean, if you wanna tell me, I guess that’s okay.” Dave pastes a smile on his face.

Dirk snorts. “Yeah, you were really cool about it when I told you Jake and I dated, too.”

“I was, actually. Considering.”

“Considering what?”

Hey, look at that! Dave is done eating! He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the linoleum. “Nothing. It’s just an expression. You done with that? No?” He leaves Dirk’s empty plate and takes his own to the sink to rinse. It must be the running water that masks the noise, because Dave doesn’t even realize that Dirk has gotten up until hands land heavily on the counter to either side of his hips.

“Considering what, Dave?” Dirk’s voice is soft and warm and _right in his ear_ , sending a frisson of sensation down Dave’s spine directly to his traitorous dick. He’s so close, his body heat so evident, that it takes Dave a second to process that Dirk isn’t actually touching him.

Yet.

“Oh, you know,” he says casually, as if he hasn’t noticed that he’s been trapped like prey against his own kitchen sink, “just, considering.” Fucking smooth, Mr. Strider.

“Considering…” Dirk muses. His fingers tap thoughtfully on the edge of the sink. “Were you jealous, Dave?”

“No.” Not even Dave thinks that was convincing.

“No? You said you were, last night. You admitted it. Jealous of all those faceless boys whose cocks I sucked, but not of my boyfriend?” He clicks his tongue. “Some of them sucked mine, too, you know.” Dave swallows hard, fighting off unwelcome mental images. Dirk still does not touch Dave, but his voice seems to have weight and pressure, to be tangible against his skin. “A few even let me fuck them,” Dirk continues casually. “It was good practice. Does that make you jealous, too, Dave?”

“Nnnnn.” Dave is going to hell for sure. He’s in hell already.

“No?” Dirk’s voice is all earnestness, even as sexual heat rolls off his body in waves. “Well, if you say so.”

“I do?” That wasn’t supposed to sound like a question, but okay.

“Why don’t you turn around, Dave,” Dirk croons. “It’s only polite. We’re having a conversation; I’d like you to look me in the eye.”

Slowly, knowing that it’s a bad idea, knowing in his bones what will happen when he does, Dave turns to face Dirk, but he keeps his gaze stubbornly downcast. Only then does Dirk touch him: the barest of touches, a fingertip to tilt up his chin. This close, Dirk’s eyes, bare of their customary tinted glass, burn like amber fire, and he seems to like what he sees in Dave’s, because they soon light with unmistakable triumph.

And then Dave can’t see shit, because Dirk’s mouth closes on his and it’s more intense than anything he’s felt since he was a teenager himself, sneaking into the school darkroom during lunch to make out with his first girlfriend. Hot, probing tongue in his mouth, hands cradling his face like Dirk is afraid he’ll pull away. There’s no thought of pulling away. There are no thoughts at all, really, just a rush of desire, like all the feelings that he’s kept barricaded behind guilt and shame are flooding out at once, and he’s drowning, and he doesn’t even care. He’d take Dirk’s body heat over air in his lungs any day.

Dirk lets him breathe anyway, sliding his lips from Dave’s over his jaw and to his neck. He leaves a trail of hard, sucking kisses down the side of his throat before roughly tugging the collar of Dave’s t-shirt aside and latching onto the sensitive place where his neck meets his shoulder until he drags unselfconsciously loud noises from Dave’s throat. Dave eggs him on with hands slid up the back of his shirt to leave scratches down his beautifully sculpted back, and feels Dirk’s hands gripping him tighter in return. He wants those hands to take him apart.

With a last, heart-wrenchingly tender brush of his lips across Dave’s, Dirk slides to his knees in a move so graceful that it must have been practiced, but Dave doesn't want to think about that, can’t really think about anything but how Dirk’s hands are playing with the hem of his shirt and then sliding onto his ass. Strong fingers squeeze and he moans, white-knuckling the counter behind him.

Dirk’s breath comes in audible huffs as he looks up at Dave, predatory and halfway desperate. His hands slide to the front of Dave’s sweatpant-clad thighs and creep up to the waistband. He skates one palm over the bulge of Dave’s dick, visibly swallowing back his hunger to keep control. Leaning in, his mouth kisses then sucks onto a spot just above the line of fabric on Dave’s hip. It leaves Dave's sightline open to see how Dirk deftly unfastens the drawstring and one finger hooks in dead center to start dragging them off his hips while his lips and tongue trace an unmistakable path.

Dirk’s mouth is literally seconds from Dave’s dick when he snaps back into reality. This can’t happen. “Wait,” he chokes out, twisting an arresting hand into Dirk’s hair.

Dirk’s eyes, at first hazy and heavy lidded from the sharp tug, narrow slightly. “What,” he manages thickly, less of a question than a slightly confused and annoyed statement, looking sidelong at Dave’s crotch like could Dave please try again later once he's done sucking this dick?

Dave is excruciatingly aware that little Dave is halfway out and hard and inches from the face of a boy who is about to be deeply unhappy with what he has to say. He pulls his hand from Dirk’s hair and it just kind of hovers there, awkwardly, in the air.

“This is,” he starts, “maybe a little fast?”

Dirk blinks once. “Fast,” he echoes, the slightest hint of disbelief starting to creep into his tone. “Dave.” Eyes shifting between the dick next to his face and Dave’s face. “ _What_.”

“Um.” Literally no situation in the history of the universe has ever been this uncomfortable. “Sorry, I should have stopped you before, uh.” He gestures to his semi-exposed erection, and when Dirks eyes, predictably, fix on it, he yanks his pants up to cover it completely. That doesn’t help as much as he would like, because he’s not wearing underwear, and his penis, which is stubbornly refusing to stop being hard as goddamn diamonds, creates an obvious tent in his loose sweatpants. It’s still just. Right there. He wishes Dirk would stand up and get his mouth further away from it.

Instead of reading Dave’s mind and conforming to his wishes, like any decent person would do, Dirk sits back on his heels, making himself comfortable on his knees on the kitchen floor, expression slowly becoming stonier and stonier as he stares at Dave and his inadequately disguised rock hard dick. “What the fuck,” he demands, now sounding the Dirk monotone equivalent of absolutely pissed. “Should have stopped me? Why?”

“Well, just to begin at the beginning of a comically long list of reasons, you’re underage.” Dirk’s anger ought to be killing the mood, he thinks desperately, but it seems to be having the opposite effect on his anatomy. He’s absolutely fucking aching. This situation could not be stupider, and neither could Dave.

“Are you shitting me? I’m practically eighteen already, Dave.” Dirk folds his arms over his chest, like he’s trying to contain all of his teenage fury. “Also, age is a fucking construct and we have been over this before. I’m consenting, jackass. I’ve wanted this for literal years, and I am willingly on my goddamn knees for you. And you decide _now_ that the measly fact I haven’t had my birthday yet is a problem?”

“Congrats, you’ve accurately summed up the situation,” Dave says woodenly, fighting the urge to shield his pants tent with his hands. That would definitely not be cool or dignified. “I mean, no. I’m not just deciding it _now_ , we’ve gone over this particular ground almost as many times as we’ve had fucking conversations, and I’ve never once conceded your bullshit, Aaliyah-esque point about the nature of age.” Oh sweet, some of that good old teacherly authority is creeping back into his voice. Not that it’s ever had much of an effect on Dirk in this particular arena, except to make his dick harder. Shit, shit, don’t think about his dick. Dave compulsively sneaks a glance and yeah, there is definite bulge happening. It’s a tad challenging to tear his eyes away.

“Your obvious lack of interest in my erection is a really convincing addendum to your argument,” Dirk observes acerbically. He does literally nothing to redirect Dave’s attention elsewhere, as if guilt might change his mind. “So we’re both just going to sit around with boners until I come of age—that’s your plan, huh? We’re going to edge each other for two months.”

“Currently my plan is to not let you blow me in my kitchen. I haven’t really sketched it out any further than that.” Dave pauses, deliberately shifts to a calmer tone of voice. “I want to talk about this, Dirk, I really do, but do you uh. Want to go take care of… that? You can use the bathroom. I’ll wait.” And maybe dump a bucket or two of ice down the front of his own pants.

“Fuck you,” Dirk says, with less vitriol than expected—though it’s obvious he’s still angry as he starts to get to his feet. “I can’t believe you let me get my mouth within centimeters of your dick before you tapped out. Now you get to spend two months building up what you just missed out on.” Dirk shakes his head slightly and stretches his back. 

“Nothing I haven’t done before,” Dave retorts unwisely. “You underestimate my tolerance for blue balls.”

Dirk flips him the bird and walks out of the kitchen, presumably headed for the bathroom. With a shuddering breath, Dave slides bonelessly down the counter onto the floor. He’s still hard. He contemplates but quickly dismisses the idea of going into his bedroom to take care of his own, uh, problem, but whatever decision he reached about Dirk last night, and whatever his dick (or his heart) wants, he’s not sure he’s ready to just casually beat his meat with Dirk in mind, even when his meat needs beating in the first place because of Dirk’s… skills.

What a fucking mess. Dave is supposed to be the grownup, the one who makes the responsible choices. And sure, he’s making them, sometimes, kind of, but only after making the wrong ones first. Dirk must feel so yanked around by his indecision.

The water comes on in the bathroom. Dirk is showering. So… he’s naked. In Dave’s bathroom. Which happens not to have a lock on the door.

 _No._ No, no, no, no. Stick to your guns, Dave. He stays on the floor, staring at the fridge and focusing on the least sexy images he can think of until his body calms. The water is still running, so he drags himself off the floor and trudges to the living room. He never did get those lesson plans done last night, So he takes a stab at working on them, but Dirk’s presence in his apartment (in his bathroom, showering, naked) proves too distracting. Switching the TV on instead, he stares blankly at it, not really caring what’s on.

Two or three episodes of blurred shapes and indistinct dialogue later, Dirk strolls into the room, gently patting his hair into its accustomed shape. He looks clean and fresh, and he’s wearing a different set of clothes. Dave didn’t even realize he’d packed before coming over, can’t even remember if he was carrying a bag with him when he came in. Maybe he left it in his car and grabbed it after Dave passed out. After an hour plus in what must have morphed into a sauna at the 20 minute point, Dave was vaguely hoping that Dirk would be calmer, relaxed and ready to discuss the sex moratorium maturely. At first, it seems fine. Dirk seems genuinely chilled out—or at least trying real fucking hard to appear that way. He tilts his head in acknowledgement of Dave’s presence, casting a quick and dismissive glance at the television. Dave follows his gaze and realizes he’s been watching _Sex and the City_. He switches it off hurriedly.

“Good… shower?” Dave asks, awkward and stilted. 

Nope, not chilled out. Dirk’s eyes harden in a flash, though the rest of him maintains his carefully controlled “relaxed” demeanor. Dave wonders if there was anything he could have said that wouldn’t have made Dirk upset. It seems unlikely.

“I guess not.” Dave expels a breath, raking a hand through his hair. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Dirk takes a borderline sulky step towards the couch but makes no move to sit. “I’m not sure we should risk the proximity. What if you accidentally let your dick almost fall into my mouth again? I don’t want to be sent back to time-out; there isn’t any hot water left.” The muscles in his jaw are taut, teeth clenched.

Dave resists rolling his eyes. “Sit down, Dirk.”

Reluctantly, he does, as if unable not to obey Dave’s teacherly authority, but obstinance sends him to the furthest end of the couch from Dave. His body language strongly indicates that Dave will have to be the one who moves if he wants them to be any closer. Fucking teenagers.

Dave crosses his arms over his chest, hoping it looks more authoritative than defensive. “Damn, Dirk, you’re really making a strong-ass case for your maturity by throwing a literal fucking tantrum because someone told you no.”

“Who’s throwing a tantrum?” Dirk says, pointedly not looking at Dave, refusing to be scolded. “This,” he gestures with a stiff hand to the couch between them, “is for your sake, since every time I’ve touched you, you’ve lost your entire shit immediately after. I’m staying out of your space because I don’t want to initiate something that you’re going to regret _again_.”

He almost does a good job hiding how stung he clearly feels, fist clenched at his hips.

Dave cocks an eyebrow. “Was the two-hour shower for my benefit too?”

“No, that was because I took my time jackin’ it,” he slings back acidly, lip curled up to flash teeth.

“Jacking off for two hours,” Dave comments, his tone edging a little further towards shithead territory than it really should. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Lalonde. Clearly you’ve got nothing in common with every other teenage boy.”

Dirk’s evidently gives in to his own eye-rolling urge. “Agreed. My stamina is significantly better.”

“Sorry, am I supposed to be impressed that you were edging yourself in my shower?”

Dirk shrugs. “Is that _not_ what you envisioned for us until I become two months older and suddenly socially acceptable to have sex with?”

Dave lets his head drop onto the back of the couch. “ _Je_ sus, Dirk. To be completely honest with you, I don’t have a single dickshitting idea what I’m envisioning for us, but if you’re trying to prove that you’re ready for an adult fucking relationship, dragging me into your petty bullshit ‘cause you’re pissed I changed my mind about letting you put your teenage mouth on my grown ass dick is not the way to do it.”

“I thought the nail was in the coffin of any adult fucking in this relationship,” Dirk says flatly, then immediately holds his hand up as if stopping any response from Dave, or maybe to stop himself from continuing to harangue Dave with snarky horseshit. He inhales deeply, exhaling through his nose. “I’m just pissed that you keep playing around with me, Dave.” He sounds tired.

Dave’s chest constricts. He sits up and looks Dirk in the eyes, willing him to feel his sincerity. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m excruciatingly aware that at no point in the past four months have I been treating you the way I should be.” Starting with that mind-numbingly stupid “u up”. If he had been treating Dirk the way he should be (i.e. entirely fucking platonically), this particular situation wouldn’t even be happening, but since it apparently is, pointing that out yet again seems both redundant and cruel. It would just be another wound on Dirk’s already terrifyingly fragile heart. “But I’m not trying to play around with you. I’m just trying to do what’s right. And I’m stumbling. A lot.”

Dirk scrutinizes Dave’s face, holding eye contact longer and more intensely than Dave might prefer. “Yeah,” he agrees finally. “Because we disagree fundamentally about what is right for me.”

“Obviously,” Dave replies in a tired voice. “But you keep forgetting that it’s not just about you, or what’s right for you, or what you want. There are two people here.” He slumps against the couch, pushing his bangs off his face. “I get why you’re mad, Dirk. I know you probably think I don’t get it, but I do. I remember being a teenager. But I don’t think you really understand what it does to me to feel this.” Dirk is just close enough to reach with an outstretched hand. Dave touches his cheek with shaking fingertips. “I need you like air. Like fucking oxygen. I couldn’t breathe for a month knowing I’d let you go. And every part of me, everything I’ve ever fucking known is telling me it’s wrong and I’m a human garbage pile for even wanting this, let alone doing anything about it. I can’t just turn that off. I kind of don’t think I should try.”

Chewing the inside of his cheek with anxiety that Dave can feel under his fingers, Dirk replies in a painfully quiet voice, “So when I hit legal age, in literally eight weeks, is that going to change, or what?” He doesn’t sound antagonistic anymore, just upset and confused. He sounds like the kid he is. “Nothing’s going to be different about my teenage mouth in two months.”

“No,” Dave says matter-of-factly, and laughs, brief and harsh. “You’re right, it’s a totally meaningless milestone. It doesn’t actually change anything, and I’d be kidding myself to think that an arbitrary birthday suddenly makes you fair game. But I need it, Dirk. Please. So I can at least pretend I’m the kind of dude I thought I was.” Dave’s stomach is roiling, and to his humiliation, he feels tears pricking at the back of his eyes. He’s never felt scummier.

“Alright,” Dirk replies with obvious reluctance in his resignation, but he’s gentle as he cups Dave’s hand and drawing it to his mouth. “I can try to do this for you.” His eyes are downcast and his thick, dark lashes hide the expression in his eyes. “I realize it isn’t necessarily a consolation, but you are exactly the kind of dude I thought you were.” He is quiet, releasing Dave’s hand just as his own starts to tremor. “It fucking scares me, because it feels like I had to break you to get here.”

Dave smiles, but it feels wobbly. “I’m not broken, Dirk. I’m just… re-evaluating.”

Dirk’s carefully still face finally crumples at that. His confident act fails him and Dave can see clearly the self-hatred that serves as its foundation. “I’m sorry, Dave. I know I fucked up. I hate that I’ve hurt you so bad,” his voice cracks, “I pushed too hard. I’m just so in love with you, I can’t--” 

“No, no,” Dave cuts him off, scooting closer, reaching for Dirk’s face and cradling it. “You didn’t fuck up, Dirk. You didn’t hurt me. You’re a teenager, you’re figuring shit out and reaching for what you want, that’s what you’re supposed to do. This situation is not you. You couldn’t have done anything to make it better.” Wanting desperately to make the unsteadiness in Dirk’s voice go away, and not knowing how else to do it, he presses his lips to Dirk’s. Dave can feel uncertainty radiating off Dirk even as his mouth opens under Dave’s, tension in his body language like he can’t quite decide how to react. “I love you,” he mumbles, almost instinctively. 

Any passivity disappears the instant Dirk processes Dave’s words. For a boy who prides himself on self-control, Dirk demonstrates a bare modicum of it, and only in the moment directly before he crashes over Dave, leaning back enough to make solid eye contact, intense and serious and demanding. “You have to tell me where you’ve drawn the line,” he warns. Then he kisses Dave back roughly enough to push him backwards, taking advantage of his gained ground by slinging a knee over Dave’s legs and boxing him in with his hands on the back of the couch. 

Dave lets Dirk kiss him punishingly hard and deep for several long minutes before setting a hand against his shoulder to give himself space and breath to respond. “I think if we stick to first base that should be safe enough.” Self-consciously, he bites his already swollen lower lip as Dirk eyes him like he’s a tasty snack. “Anything else, uh… for now, let’s just say it can be up for discussion. _After_ you turn eighteen.” _You’re disgusting,_ his inner voice whispers.

“So you’re saying even discussion is off the table until then?” Dirk murmurs hotly in Dave’s ear, as if he’s trying to drown out Dave’s conscience. “You sure you want to go into our birthday unprepared for what I have in mind for you?”

“I’m saying this is not a negotiation,” Dave counters, planting a hand flat on Dirk’s face and shoving it back like they’re both kids. “And yes, I’m very sure about _that_.”

“You want to me to get you a purity ring while we’re at it?” He says flatly into Dave’s palm. “You can put it around your dick and really commit to the edging bit.”

“I want to at least not be legally guilty of raping you, you willfully obtuse, single-minded dickprince.” He takes his hand off Dirk’s face, and Dirk immediately captures his wrist in a big, impossibly warm hand. “If you wanna be like this, I can take kissing off the table, too.”

“Have I ever told you that I get rock hard for orgasm denial?” Dirk tugs Dave’s arm and guides his hand to the back of Dirk’s neck. It’s even warmer, like Dave is cuddling with a furnace. 

“You told me that when you were fifteen,” Dave retorts. “You’ve been trying to put me in prison since practically before your balls dropped.” His fingers have a mind of their own, and they’re playing with Dirk’s collar and the fine, soft hair on the back of his neck. 

“And look where it got me,” Dirk replies boldly, though his gaze drops for a second at Dave’s words, a flicker of self-loathing and shame in his expression. “Now my fully descended balls are imprisoned in your torturous chastity fetish.”

Dave laughs out loud. “Fuck, I love you. And it’s not a fetish, it’s a painfully half-assed moral code.”

“I hope you also love the color blue, because that’s what color my balls are going to be for the next two months.” 

“Dirk,” Dave warns, sternly but affectionately.

“Are we talking about balls too much? I never feel like I have an accurate sense for that.”

“They’re technically not first base material.” _Also when you’re talking, you’re not kissing me_ , he doesn’t say out loud.

“I feel like my generation engages with that metaphor less than you might have when you were my age,” Dirk informs Dave, leaning in. “I don’t entirely understand what fits into the definition of first base.”

“I don’t even know what bases are for,” Dave fudges, not giving Dirk an inch on that particular line of bullshit. “Are they like, goals?”

“Yeah, like goals for the balls. In sports.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely right. So, it’s like this: third base is where you throw the balls into, to make a goal, right? So there’s no touching balls until third base.”

Dirk’s nose skates Dave’s cheek, lips feather-light against his jaw. “Which birthday is that?”

“Twenty-one?” Dave tries, with no expectation of success. He’s not totally sure he’ll even make it to eighteen, given the zero percent chance that Dirk will respect his “no negotiating” rule.

Dirk laughs right in his face, literally, then kisses him. It’s sweet this time, like Dirk has relaxed enough to let himself really enjoy it instead of grabbing for whatever he can get before Dave changes his mind. Instead, he starts slow and explores every square inch of Dave’s mouth until Dave is sighing and melting under him. A hand settles experimentally in the small of Dave’s back, and he lets it stay, because he wants it there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DIRK AND DAVE WILL RETURN IN............. AS YET UNTITLED FIC IN WHICH DIRK FINALLY GETS TO TAP THAT ASS
> 
> [EDIT: made a minor change to the almost-a-sex-scene to leave options open for future installments]


End file.
